In the Land Down Under
by Basco57
Summary: Ever wonder what would happen if we took the iCarly cast, and left them to wander in the Australian outback for days with no food or water or Fat Cakes, with a possible killer on the loose? No? Okay, well, we gonna find find out.
1. Random Prequal

**A/N: You may want to know... A) A bandicoot is an animal, not just something I made up in my mind. It is from Australia and can be classified as a marsupial. B) Anything strange you hear in this chapter, like, even strange from ME is straight from the Australian slang dictionary. C) Do you know what vegemite is? I'm not sure whether or not that's common knowledge...hmm. Just know that to most, it's quite disgusting. D) This is the only part of the story in third person. It's kind of a long intro. An over sized prologue, if you will. The rest will be in the alternating POV of the various characters. **

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed. **

* * *

Between the weeks of preparation, and the days spent in rehearsal, and the hours of bumper to bumper traffic on the way to the airport, and the hollow disappointment of a flight cancellation, Carly Shay wonders when it was exactly that she sank low enough to ask Nevel Pappermin for help.

"Wait, wait, wait!" the well dressed boy squeals, waving his pudgy hands in Carly's disgruntled face. "Before you ask, I want to get this on camera."

"Ugh! Can I kill him _now_, Carls?"

Nevel laughs. "Ha, you don't scare me, co host!" Though Spencer and Freddie each have a restraining hand on Sam's shoulders, Nevel retreats several steps when she jerks toward him with violent intentions.

"No, Sam, we…" Carly struggles with herself, barely managing, "need him," through clenched teeth.

Nevel brightens up at this, remembering that the tables are turned in his favor. He straightens out the small clip on tie tucked neatly under his navy vest, clearing his throat. "Franz!" The name echoes through the crowded terminal before a brawny bald man surfaces from behind a newspaper.

"It's Francis."

"_What_?" Nevel hisses.

"My name," the man says, joining their group. "It's Francis."

"Okay, _Francis_." Nevel shoves a small black camcorder forcefully into the large man's chest. "Here, tape this."

"Who's the tree?" Sam asks.

Nevel is quick to answer, "My pilot, hired hand, body guard."

Francis ignores him. "Hi, I'm Francis. I'm a friend of Nevel's mom. I'm his babysitter."

"You _are not_," Nevel squeals. "I don't pay you to babysit me!"

"You don't pay me at all," Francis points out.

"Okay, okay! Let's just get this over with," Freddie starts, putting his hand up to silence Nevel's whiny reply. "Are you ready, Carly?"

She swallows hard, glancing at Sam, who looks as reluctant as Carly expects. "Alright, Sam, come on." Francis switches on the camera, pointing it at the two glum show hosts. Nevel claps his hands together, tittering joyfully. Carly sighs, then begins, "Hey, I'm Carly."

"And I'm Sam," she adds, more out of habit than anything.

"And we are asking Nevel-,"

Nevel grabs the front of the camera, sticking his round face in the screen. "Nevel Pappermin, creator and founder of Neveloscity dot com. If you've got taste, you'll check it out."

"Hey, now," Carly starts. "That's shameless pimping."

"Go ahead, say the name of your website," Nevel hastens.

"Eh, I'd rather not."

Nevel rolls his eyes, putting his face back in the camera. "The two girls you see here behind are the hosts for-," he scrunches up his nose as though there's a horrible stench about, "-_iCarly_." Then he's smiling again, "And they are about to admit that Neveloscity is better than their website-,"

"Dream on, Pappermin!"

"Fine, _co host_," Nevel sighs. He turns back to the camera, regaining his cheeriness, and says, "But they are about to beg, so enjoy."

"There go our viewers," Sam mumbles.

"Okay, right, well…" Carly clears her throat, squaring her shoulders toward the camera. "We are here at the Seattle airport, and our flight to Australia just got canceled."

"Tell the nice people why you are going to Australia," Nevel chides pleasantly from off camera.

Carly frowns. Sam glares. "We are going to Sydney, Australia for our second consecutive nomination into the iWeb Awards. Nevel-," once again Nevel's round smirking face takes over the shot, "-is also headed to the iWeb Awards because his site was nominated for…Uh, what was it nominated for, again?"

Before Nevel can answer, Sam grumbles, "Ladies' choice award, or something."

"No!" Nevel answers, a bit too quickly, and a bit too defensively. Spencer and Freddie snicker from behind the camera. Nevel exhales angrily. "Just get on with it, Carly Shay!"

"Well..." Carly sighs. "We were getting ready to board our plan when we found out our flight was canceled," she explains.

"Yeah, and we happened to run into this little godforsaken runt," Sam chimes in, "who is taking a private plane to Sidney-,"

Nevel, once again, slides into the shot. "I refuse to ride coach," he informs the camera cheerily.

"And since the iWebs are tomorrow-," Sam continues, ignoring Nevel.

"And there's not another flight scheduled for Sidney until Tuesday…"

"We need the momma's boy to hook us up," Sam admits reluctantly.

"I will have you know," Nevel snaps, "That though my mother is a dear, dear woman, I am _not _a so-called 'momma's boy'-," he air quotes that with a twisted sneer, "-and I will not have you talking about her!"

"Oh, you haven't even _heard _me talk about your mother yet-,"

"Sam, please, let's just ask him," Carly sighs, disdain taking over her features. "Nevel?"

"Yes?" he chirps joyfully.

Carly kicks at the ground once, glancing at Sam, who offers nothing but a defeated shrug, then spits out, "Can we please ride with you in your plane to Australia?"

A haughty grin spreads across Nevel's face as he inquires, "What's in it for me?"

"You already get to do whatever you want with this video, you little creep!"

Nevel steps back, looking the fuming co host up and down with distaste. He raises his hand and snaps his fingers, calling, "Could somebody please restrain the uncivilized blonde adolescent?" He points at Freddie, then snaps again. Freddie raises his eyebrows, looking down on Nevel, and crosses his arms. "Yes, tech boy wonder, I mean you! Who's in charge, again? Is it the guy with the plane? It is!"

Freddie rolls his eyes, and reluctantly shuffles toward Sam, who is bouncing on her heels, looking as though she's about to pounce on Nevel. Freddie grabs her hood, and pulls her back a bit. She doesn't struggle. She just mumbles something like, "I'm gonna kill 'em," in a barely audible snarl.

"So," Nevel, now pleased, continues loftily. "I was thinking that maybe, as I doubt any of you ruffians have something of value to offer me, that I shall like to receive a kiss from Carly Shay."

"Okay, well, looks like we won't be going to the iWeb Awards after all," Carly says, shrugging.

A bit set back, as that was just caught on camera, but determined all the same, Nevel hastens, "Fine, fine. You shouldn't make it a habit to pass up dealings of such opportunity, Shay." He glances at Spencer. "Or you'll end up like that guy."

Spencer, who was wrestling relentlessly with the strings of his hoody, finally joins the present, and whines, "Hey, I went to law school for three days!"

"Indeed," Nevel murmurs, looking Spencer up and down in a superior manner.

Carly huffs, blowing a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "Well, Nevel, what'll it be?"

Nevel clicks his tongue, rocking back and forth, feigning the expression of difficult decision making. "Hmm…" More indecisive tongue clicking.

"That's it, you little runt!" Sam finally explodes, busting easily out of Freddie's hold on her hood, though his attempt at detainment isn't too vigorous. In fact, he can be seen smiling as Sam pummels Nevel into the floor. Nevel's 'body guard'/babysitter does nothing to stop the beat down, but he does turn the camera in it's direction. Sam is on top of Nevel's back, shoving his face into the blue tiled floor of the terminal. She forces one of his arms out at an unnatural angle, then hisses in his ear, "Let's say, oh, you let us hitch a ride to Australia, and you get to keep your face. How does that sound, punkin?"

"Get this raging hooligan off me! Franz! Mother! Call Mother!"

"Let him up, Sam," Carly says wearily.

Sam grudgingly obliges, tripping the short boy only twice as he staggers to his feet. He catches his breath for a moment, turning on Freddie. "You said you would restrain her!"

Freddie shrugs. "And you said you weren't a momma's boy." Carly and Sam, each at one of Freddie's shoulders, give Nevel their own smug looks, which Francis dutifully catches on camera.

Nevel gathers himself, dusting off his front, and straightening the tie under his vest again. He laughs humorlessly, then says, "Just because you've got _viewers_, and a _fan base, _and _random dancing_," he spit's the last words out like they have a bad taste, "doesn't mean you are _all that_ _and a bag of chips_, if you will, or whatever you kids say these days." He suddenly turns to Francis, asking sharply, "Did you video tape the short thuggish one catching me off guard?"

Francis smiles. "Just like you said," then he adds, "boss," to humor the fuming boy in khakis.

"Well," Carly starts pleasantly, "If you can't blackmail us with that anymore, can we at least have it in case we need to exploit your, eh, not being a momma's boy all over the web someday?"

"Watch it, iCarly gang. I'm your ticket to the iWeb Awards, so I suggest you play nicely." And with that, he turns on his heel with a haughty, "Hmph," and begins toward what is assumed as his plane.

Carly, Sam, and Freddie follow reluctantly, Sam mumbling, "Oh, why yes, your half-pintedness."

"Wait!" Spencer calls after them, waving his hands in the air. "We forgot Gibby!"

Carly's shoulders slump before she turns around. "Oh, yeah, I forgot about him."

"Why are we taking possibly only human being dorkier than Freddie with us to the iWeb Awards again?"

"Hey, Sam! You-,"

"Because," Carly starts, ignoring Freddie's attempted retort. "He's in our skit for the show, remember? The people love the Gibby." She looks to Freddie for confirmation.

Freddie, recovered from Sam's jab, nods. "Yeah, our viewer ratings go up noticeably when we have Gibby on the show. Not to mention the positive feedback, and the fact that Gibby is cheap for us and entertaining for them, and the good reviews, and the number of views-,"

"Yeah, yeah! Cool it, Whizpants. Hey, half-pint!" Sam calls, pleased when Nevel turns around. "Wait up a sec, we need to find Gibby."

"What is a Gibby?" Nevel asks, stopping in the middle of the crowded hall, not noticing when a large man pushing a cart full of caged birds takes a spill while forced to swerve around him.

Spencer scans the terminal. "So…Where is Gibby, anyways?"

"I don't know, Spencer," Carly shrugs. "I thought you were keeping an eye on him."

Spencer shifts his weight, tracing a small circle on the floor with his toe. "I dunno." Carly gives him a stern look. "Hey, you can't blame me! We are in a crowded air port! There happen to be a lot of distractions, and you know how I get when - oh my gosh, Mr. Markey's Marvelous Marmalade! They have one here? Ah!" Spencer then skips off to the nearby store, waving a few bucks in his hand, happily on his way to purchase something smothered in jelly.

Carly sighs, turning to Sam. "What did you do with Gibby?"

"Nothing!"

"Sam."

"I just gave him a dollar, and told him find some friends," she states defensively. "It's not like I told him to get lost or anything."

"_Oh_, _yeah_," Freddie uses to jump start the bickering. "Because 'go find some friends' wouldn't give somebody the idea to get lost. Good one, Sam."

Sam's in is face in less than a second. "Alright, dork. You want a dollar too? Maybe you could pay some poor soul to look at your face for longer than…"

By now, Carly is well practiced at zoning her two friends out. She scans her surroundings, looking for signs of a short round boy…probably shirtless and dancing. Her eyes fall on a different short round boy though. Nevel has his hands on his hips, and Carly can make out the appalled expression of his profile. She follows his gaze, and, sure enough, sees he is watching a young boy in the food court, dancing on a table, whipping a shirt over his head, having various items of cash thrown in his direction.

"Gibby!" Carly calls, striding over to the table he chose to call stage, and pulls him down.

"Thank you, thank you!" Gibby shouts to his waning audience. "I'm here 'till Thursday!"

"No, Gibby, you're not," Carly says, tugging him by the wrist out of the food court. "We just ran into Nevel-,"

"You mean that fruit who tries to kiss you and blackmail you all the time?"

"Yes," Carly groans. "But we convinced him to give us a ride to the iWeb Awards. So, we need to get going. Spencer!" she shouts, her voice carrying across the crowded hall. Spencer, just finishing off something extremely sticky, perks up, and makes his way over, reaching Nevel and Francis at the same time as Carly and Gibby. Sam and Freddie amble over as well, both pulling the luggage cart, and both red in the face from shouting.

"Well, at least I don't have wittle duckies on my bedding, you nub!"

"Hey, Sam! When have you seen my - er, they aren't _duckies_!"

"Alright!" Carly claps twice, managing to catch their attention for once. She turns to Nevel, and sighs, waiting for him to make a move.

He is still watching Gibby with an astounded expression. "So," he starts, motioning to the shirtless boy. "I still don't understand. Is he your pet?"

"We'll follow you," Carly says.

Nevel smirks, taking three large steps ahead of the group before he beckons them forward, and starts off toward the east wing. The private plane is not exactly a jet, but it is quite a bit nicer than the plane they had taken to the iWebs last year. And, as far as Carly can tell, there are no rabid opossums inside, which she takes as a good sign. But, there is a man named Wozza in the plane, which concerns her a bit.

"So, uh, what's your deal again?" Sam asks the man in the completely khaki getup for about the third time.

"I am that Mr. Pappermin bloke's hired guide." He jabs a thumb toward the front of the small plane, where Nevel, who refused to sit by 'a bunch of hooligans', is taking a nap.

"So," Carly starts pleasantly, smiling at the man. "Are you, like, a native?"

"Vegemite?" Wozza offers, holding out the jar of dark goo that he was dipping his crackers into.

"I'll take that as a yes, you're Australian," Carly says.

"Aussie through and through." Wozza smiles at Sam, who has taken an interest in the jar in his hands. "Want some?"

"What is it?"

"It's vegemite, like peanut butter for Australians," Freddie explains. "Trust me, Sam, you won't like-," Freddie pauses thoughtfully for a moment, a mischievous grin slowly spreading across his face, then he continues, "You'll love it! Try some."

Sam dips her fingers into the jar, licking them off one by one. By the time she gets to the last finger, she's glaring Freddie down, who is cowering a bit in her wake. "This is disgusting!" she exclaims, wiping the remaining black paste down Freddie's front.

"Sam! My mom is going to kill me! You know how she is about the striped pastels, and-,"

"Speaking of Crazy," Sam starts. "Where is she? Shouldn't she be here holding Freddie's hand or something?"

"She'd never let me go to Australia alone," Freddie sighs. "She thinks I'm on a fishing trip in Yakima, with Spence and Carly's grandpa."

"Because we all know that Freddo could use the man-time," Spencer says lovingly. Gibby snorts, and Sam finds this to be the utmost hilarity. Freddie scowls.

"Hey, what's that?" Gibby asks Wozza, pointing to a big square object covered by a white sheet in the back of the plane. "It was making noise earlier."

"Oh, well, that's because…Here." Wozza walks to the mysterious object, and whips off the sheet, revealing the small furry contents.

Carly squeals, "How come every time we go across seas to the iWebs, there's an opossum on our plane?"

"Heh, she's not an opossi," Wozza laughs. "Jillaroo is bandicoot. I rescued her when I was guiding a tour through the northern rain forests last year."

"Jillaroo is a _what_?" Sam asks.

"A bandicoot! They're really sweet little things, you know, once you get past the claws and what not."

"Claws?" Carly asks, scooting back in her seat a bit.

"Aw, I'm just mucking around," Wozza laughs, flicking his wrist dismissively. "Jillaroo is really a sweetie, and we've got her on wet food, and she's housebroken."

Freddie laughs. "Hmm…sounds like she's further along than Sam."

Sam is quick to counter, "Oh, don't get sassy with me just because you're mad that you forgot your Battle Galactica trading cards at home, dork."

Wozza laughs, "Hah, you yanks are a hoot!" Freddie is momentarily distracted from giving a comeback, and he and Sam look back at the guide with matching incredulous expressions. "So, why are you kiddies coming to Aussie land anyhow?"

"The iWeb Awards are being held in Sidney this year," Carly explains. "Hopefully it will be better than our experience in Japan last year."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "Maybe we won't get kidnapped, and left to wonder in the Japanese wilderness this time."

"Oh, wait, I know you kiddies!" Wozza absently pets the small critter in his hands as he nods comprehensively. "You'se the iCarly people, right?"

"Yeah." Carly smiles. "You've watched it?"

"Oh, yeah." Wozza nods enthusiastically. "My daughters love it. It's a real hum dinger, it is."

"Not sure what that means, but thanks!"

"So, I bet you kiddies are keen as mustard to win your award."

"Uh…" Freddie looks to Carly for help, who looks to Sam.

"Mustard is good, yes," Sam agrees, nodding.

Wozza laughs, then looks at Gibby and Spencer, who are getting a bit riled up over an intense game of dominoes. Spencer lays a piece down, then gets in Gibby's face and exclaims, "That's right! In your face, little dude! I win! Stick it in your French pipe!"

"Is the tall bloke, er, a bit up the gum tree or something?"

Carly itches the back of her head. "Uh, yes?"

"Mmm," Wozza hums, still watching Spencer, who comes over and joins them again.

"Can I pet your bandicoot?" Spencer asks eagerly.

"'Course you can, mate. Here." He hands the furry bundle over to Spencer, who takes it with a childlike glow in his face.

"How did you get one of these?" Spencer asks, giggling when the bandicoot nuzzles his hand.

"Well, like I said, I rescued her. Jillaroo was stuck up in a tree, and she was just a little tyke back then, so I thought I should take her home before something got her, you know?" Spencer nods enthusiastically. "I just fed her moo juice for the first few months, and she was happy as a king," Wozza informs him.

"Ow, ouch!" Spencer retracts his hand from Jillaroo, immediately bringing his finger to his mouth. "She bit me!"

"Oh, she just likes ya, that's all." Wozza laughs it off, but not as hysterically as Sam does.

"It's owy," Spencer whines to Carly, showing her his finger.

"I left your Band-Aids in my suitcase, which is under the plane," Carly tells him. "Go ask Francis. He's probably got a first aid kit."

Spencer tearfully shoves Jillaroo into Wozza's hands, then saunters up the aisle to the cockpit, holding his finger tenderly. Nevel looks up from his magazine, sees Spencer, then looks to the back of the plane. Sam immediately gives him a rude hand gesture, and he scoffs. "That Pepperman kid really cheeses me off. Little ear basher, that's what he is. Never shuts up," Wozza says. "So, you think I could get you'se's autographs for my little girls. They'd be happy as a pig in mud."

Carly smiles. "Yeah, sure-,"

"Uh, guys!" Spencer's head pops out from behind the blue curtain in the front. "Um, I, uh…I think Francis faints at the sight of blood."

"Yeah," Nevel says, perking up. "He has been known to for syncope, yes. Why are you bringing this up n-," Before Nevel can finish, the plane jerks violently, and everyone is thrown against the wall. Nevel and Jillaroo both squeal loudly.

"Spencer, what happened?" Carly shouts, bracing herself when there's another jerk, and she's thrown to the other side. "Who's flying the plane?"

Spencer unsteadily makes his way back to them. He grabs onto Gibby while there's another jerk, and doesn't let go. "I showed Francis my finger, and he just passed out!" Spencer grips Gibby tighter, and begins manically petting his head. "Does anyone know how to fly a plane?"

"I'm going to go wake up the bloke," Wozza says, running up to the cockpit. Gibby tries desperately to wiggle out of Spencer's hold. Spencer just continues petting him, wide eyed.

"I'm too handsome to die!" Nevel screams, falling onto the floor, and assuming fetal position.

"We aren't going to die, Nevel!" Freddie shouts at him, but not looking too sure himself.

"Gah, I'm starving." Sam grabs onto Carly and Freddie when there's another jolt, then steadies herself, and makes her way to the mini fridge.

"How can you think of food at a time like this, Sam?" Freddie follows after her, looking intent to nag. Carly wonders how he can look to pick a fight at a time like this. She trips up toward the cockpit, meeting Wozza after she steps over Nevel's shivering form.

"Did you wake him up?"

"No." Wozza shakes his head. "He's zonked out. Now, do any of you know how to fly a plane?"

"Do you?" Carly asks, close to hysterics now.

"Well, I mean, anyone can coast for awhile, but we need to land, or the rig's gonna run outta gas, and go down!" Wozza shouts over Nevel's screams and the plane's loud tremors. "And it feels like we're going down already!"

"What are we going to do?" Carly asks desperately.

Wozza raises his voice for the whole plane to here, "We're gonna have to jump!"

"Damn it, not again!" Sam stuffs the second half of a sandwich in her mouth, then pushes past Freddie, and stalks toward Carly and Wozza. Freddie follows hurriedly after her, pulling Spencer along behind him, who is frozen and still clinging desperately onto Gibby.

"Alright, I'm not quite sure where we are," Wozza says, disappearing into the cockpit, and returning with a few parachutes. "But we've been on this plane since seven this morning, so we ought to be over Australia by now. So, since none of us can fly a plane, and we wouldn't know where to land anyhow, we're gonna have to jump." He looks down suddenly, seeing that Nevel is now clinging to his leg. Wozza kicks a bit, saying, "Get up, you twit! You're first!"

"NO!"

Wozza has to force Nevel into the parachute, then he turns to Spencer. "Could you let go of that little kiddie? We should let the younger tykes go first, and since there are only four parachutes, we need to go in pairs."

"But, I don't want to fall out of a plane with Carly Shay's pet Gibbly!" Nevel squeals, again dropping into fetal position.

"Get a hold of yourself, you flaming drongo!" Wozza forcefully stands him up again, and motions for Spencer to let go of Gibby.

"Spencer," Gibby chokes. "I can't breath."

Carly, Sam, and Freddie are able to pry Gibby out of Spencer's hold. Wozza slaps a pair of goggles around Gibby's head, then Nevel's, and checks their straps. Then he chucks another parachute at Spencer, who is now clinging onto Carly for dear life, and says, "You two, strap up!" Carly immediately follows his directions, strapping both herself and her brother in, as Spencer is still a bit useless and in shock at this point. Wozza disappears into the cockpit, returning a moment later dragging Francis behind him. He silently begins strapping himself to the pilot.

"Wait…" Sam looks at Gibby, who is attached to Nevel, and trying his best to stand upright as Nevel tries to fall to the floor again.

"Get up, you fruit!"

Sam glances over at Spencer and Carly, who managed to successfully strap them in with shaking hands. Then she looks around at Wozza, who is supporting Francis' limp form while sliding into a parachute. Her eyes fall on the one remaining chute at the same time Freddie's do. "No way. Nope. Huh uh. Not gonna happen."

"Come on, kiddies!" Wozza calls. "You two need to hook up! Here!" He tosses two pairs of bright orange goggles at Freddie.

"Couldn't we, like, leave Freddie in the plane?"

Freddie turns on her, glaring. "How about we leave _you_ in the plane, Sam."

"I swear, dorkboy-,"

"If you guys start again, we're leaving both of you in the plane!" Carly screams above the whipping sound of the wind, as Wozza just opened the hatch. Sam scowls as she picks up the parachute, and shoves it into Freddie's chest. He grumbles as he places a pair of goggles around her blonde head, snapping the strap in the back with unnecessary force.

"Alright! Everyone, listen up! When you land, try to find me right away. But if you can't head northwest. There's a major highway in that direction!" Wozza calls, pulling Nevel to his feet for the third time. "You two are first!"

"NOOO! Please, let me call my mother! I need to-," Nevel's voice is suddenly cut off as Gibby shrugs, and leaps out of the plane.

"Oops, I forgot to tell them not to pull the chute until they're in the dead zone," Wozza says. "Mmm…Hope they don't kark it."

"K-k-kark it?" Spencer squeaks.

Wozza shrugs, explaining, "You know, kick the bucket." Spencer shakes his head. "Die."

Spencer's face suddenly contorts in extreme sorrow. "Be careful, young Gibby! Don't kark it!" he calls out the open hatch. Suddenly overcome by emotion, he collapses, pulling Carly down with him.

"Is he okay?" Wozza asks.

"Yeah," Carly nods, petting Spencer's hair. "He just needs a minute."

"Right, okay, then you two-," he turns around to Sam and Freddie, who he finds in a horrible mess of straps and hooks.

"Freddie, my arm goes there, not your leg!"

"Stop pulling on that, Sam! You cutting off my air circulation!" Sam immediately begins pulling tighter on a loose strap in her hands.

"Okay, kiddies, let me…ugh." Wozza drags Francis along with him over to Sam and Freddie, tugs a few straps, forces Freddie's shoulders into the harness, then hooks his to the back of Sam's harness. "Alrighty, you two are up!"

"Kill me now."

"Good luck," Spencer calls breathlessly from the floor. "Don't…kark it…"

Sam snaps Freddie's goggles against his face, as she explains it, "For luck," and the two trip over to the open hatch. Freddie looks back once, then looks down at Sam, and has a random desire to be gallant, starting, "Don't worry, Sam, we're gonna be alright-,"

"Sayonara, peoples!" Sam calls, and throws both of them out of the plane.

"SAM-,"

Wozza turns to Carly, who is still comforting Spencer on the ground, and asks, "You ready now, miss?"

Carly taps Spencer's cheek a few times, and he shakily rises to his feet with her. "Ready, Spence?" Spencer gulps, grabs the doorframe, and remains petrified.

"Any tick of the clock now!" Wozza calls to them.

"Let's…not…kark it," Spencer moans before gripping onto his sister as she leaps out open hatch into the sea of blue.

"What are they doing? Where's Nevel?"

"We're about to jump out of the unmanned plane because our pilot passed out, and we don't know how to land a plane, and if we don't land soon this baby's running out of gas, then we go down and you know the rest, and-," Wozza pauses. "Francis?"

"Yeah…Whoa, my head hurts." The pilot staggers on his feet, Wozza steadying him. Wozza undoes the straps, and lays Francis gingerly on the floor of the cockpit.

"You alright, mate?"

"Yeah, fine, I think," Francis stammers, rubbing his forehead. "Where is everyone?"

"Oh, right. Them. Eh…I had them jump out of the plane because you were out, so it seemed like the thing to do at the time." Wozza itches his head, watching the floor. "Hmm…I s'pose we should send a search party out for them or something, aye?"

"Mmm, yeah, I guess," Francis sighs. "Nevel probably won't be able to last very long in the Australian outback, heh." He pauses, glancing up at Wozza.

"And we wouldn't want anything to happen to that little ear-bashing, whip cracker, would we?" Wozza pauses thoughtfully as well. His thoughts mostly travel to not having to be the Pappermin bloke's man servant for awhile. Francis is pretty much on the same page.

"…"

"…"

"Let's hit up Bossie's Famous Bar-B-Que first, aye?"

Francis stands up, and plops down in the pilot's seat, slapping a pair of headphones over his ears. "Bossie's Bar-B-Que it is!"

* * *

**A/N: The 'shameless pimping' thing Carly says is stolen straight from one of DROWN-IN-SEQUENCE's A/Ns somwhere...Speaking of shameless pimping, you should defenitely check out her stories. Just go to my profile, and you'll find 'em somewhere. **

**Welp, welp, welp...Okay, so that was really long and random and probably seemed a bit pointless...Yeah. Well, I had to get everyone together, and on a plane flying over the outback. So naturally the first chapter was going to be random. I honestly don't know when I'm going to update. I have the next chapter or so done, but I've still gotta work on the rest of the story, so I might wait a bit to update. Okay, thanks. Reveiws would be inspirational at this time. I am suffering from my first ever writer's block, *gasp*, so I decided to post this to see if some reviews might jumpstart the plot bunnies again. I dunno. Thanks, later.**


	2. Day 1: Midday

**First POV-Carly. Second-Freddie. Third-Gibby.**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed.****  
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Honestly, what did I do to deserve this? I mean, I've always been good in school. I do my homework, and I kind of - sort of - hold back my sassy comments to authority. I am a good sister, too! I mean, I practically take care of my twenty six year old brother, and I put up with his not-so-occasional random spouts of…Spencerness. I just don't understand why every time I fly across seas to go to an award show, I end up jumping out of an airplane! And this time, I have no idea where the closest road is, or where anyone else is for that matter.

Well, except for Spencer. He is currently on top of me, wrestling mercilessly with the deflated parachute.

"Eehhh…Carly…Carly? Carly!"

"Spencer, ger'off me!" I call, my voice a bit muffled from the nylon chute currently suffocating my face.

"Right." He rolls to his left, giving me enough room to unstrap us. He moans for a moment, clutching his side. "Stupid rocks…Stupid pain…" There's relief when I've finally undone the harness, and I am able to stand up without dragging the large child with me. I dust myself off, and scan our surroundings, looking around at the, eh, nothing. No trees. No Gibby. No road. No cars. No elephants. No hot Australian boys with hot Australian accents. No buildings. No water. No life. But there is dirt. A lot of dirt. "Where are we?"

Spencer groans a bit as he stands, and says, "I dunno, the outback? Wherever we are, it's _hot_. We need to get out of the sun."

"There's nothing _but _sun out here!" I bend down and scoop up a handful of dust, letting it drain slowly from my fist as I watch it disappear with the breeze. "We're gonna die!"

Spencer rests a hand on my shoulder, saying, "We are NOT going to die out here…" He pauses for a moment, his eyes falling a few yards away on the dry horned skull of some unlucky animal. "Okay, maybe we are going to die."

Ew, snake. Ew. Ew. Ewww! They're so ugly and slimey and…ew. "Spencer! SNAKE!"

"Uh…No thank you?"

"No! There's a SNAKE! On the ground!" Gah, I don't think it's possible for me to jump and point anymore, and he _still_ doesn't see it. "It's coming toward us!" I leap up in the air, and my brother and I share a Scooby Doo/Shaggy moment…er, he catches me. Whatever tooths your paste. "Kill it!" I scream.

"No, Carls, we aren't going to kill it." He sets me down, putting a comforting hand on my head. "It's just a little snake, here." He crouches down, offering the snake a piece of cheese.

"Erm, where did you get that cheese?"

"Shh, shush. He's taking it-yaAHH!"

"Holy chizz, Spencer!" I don't think the thing actually bit him just now, but it's coiling up, looking like it's ready to lash out again. And he's _still_ holding the random cheese out for it. "Spencer!" I say firmly, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him away from the disgusting excuse for life. Sorry, I'm just not a fan of snakes. But I'm sure mongooses and, eh, the food chain and life cycle are fond of them, I will admit. And Samuel L. Jackson got a movie and an awesome line from snakes that is probably not appropriate for me to say because this is a K+ rating...And now I'm rambling like Spencer, who hasn't given up on befriending the snake. "You've already been bit by one Australian animal today. Let's not play with the deadly ones," I tell him.

"Aw, he's not deadly, he just wanted some cheese." Spencer gathers himself, obliging to my pulls, and steps back from the snake. "I want to name him Buttercup."

"Oh my God, we haven't even been out here for five minutes, and the heat's already melting your brain." Well…maybe that started a while ago. I don't think Dad was kidding when he used to tell us that Spencer has been dropped on his head one too many times. Anyway, we need to find some shade. Heat disoriented Spencer is not going to be a picnic, I'm sure. "You see that dark grove over there?"

"The one shaped like Abe Lincoln's beard?"

"…Yes?"

"Let's go!" Spencer starts, grabbing me with one hand, and gathering the nylon chute in the other. He drags me behind him as he starts toward what appears to be maybe, _possibly,_ a grove of trees in the distance. Urgh…Next time we get invited to the iWebs, it better be somewhere tropical, so when we have to jump out of the plane it will seem more like a vacation and less like a barren hell.

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"So…"

To onlookers, I may appear as safe, dangling in a sturdy harness attached to a red parachute caught in a huge tree. Here I am, just swinging to and fro, arms crossed, expression disgruntled, but I'm far above the brush floor, and at least I'm pretty much out of harm's way, right? Wrong. Though I am above the ground, and whatever may be lurking in the bushes down there, I know that the real danger is strapped to the front of me, and the top of danger's head keeps tickling my chin.

Ugh…And danger is still swinging her legs, after I've told her to stop, oh, I don't know, A HUNDRED TIMES! "Sam, for the love of white balance, please, STOP kicking your feet!"

"Gah, settle down, Benson! I'm bored! When I'm bored," she starts, using the insulting tone of someone talking to an infant, "I like to not just sit there and do _nothing_ for _hours_."

Seriously? "Okay, well, it's not my fault we crash landed somewhere in Australia! It's not my fault that our parachute is stuck in a tree, and we've been hanging here for the past three hours! It's not my fault you're strapped to the front of me because of this stupid harness!"

"Stupid harness," she murmurs in agreement, tugging violently on the straps again, an action that's she's been repeating as often as she kicks her legs.

"It's not my fault that you-,"

"Okay, please, shut up. All you do is rant, rant, rant…seriously, just SHUT UP!"

How did I manage to get stuck in a harness twenty feet above the ground in the Australian outback with the most aggravating person on the face of the planet? I'm not a big believer in superstition, but I _did_ break a mirror once, and that was less than seven years ago, so the whole bad luck thing may not have worn off, and-

"You're the dork. Figure out how to get us down!"

"It's not that simple, Sam. I've got to think about this for a minute."

"You've been thinking about it for _hours_," she complains, throwing her hands up in the air. "Let's just unstrap this bad boy."

"And fall to our deaths?" No thanks.

"Not our deaths, just maybe a broken bone or two…" She seems to take this in for a moment. Hey, maybe she's seeing my side of things. "I'll just make sure that I land on you, and then _I_ won't break anything."

Then again, maybe not. "You are very considerate."

"Yeah, yeah, your sarcasm is appreciated. Now stop talking, start thinking!"

And for once, I actually follow her order without complaint. But there isn't much thinking I can do, really. Just the same ground I've covered over and over in the past few hours. Isn't there some sort of lever or strap or something I should be able to pull that will automatically release our harness? And then what happens after the harness is released? The ground is quite a ways down, and I'm currently not feeling too lucky. Not when I'm stuck in a tree somewhere in the Australian outback, and I'm missing the iWeb Awards _again_, and I've got to deal with-

"Gah! Dorkface, could you hurry up?"

Yeah, when I've got THAT to deal with. "Sam, if you would be quiet for more than FIVE SECONDS, maybe I could figure something out!"

Five seconds passes easily, then, "Alright, Freddork, what are we gonna do?"

I sigh, deliberately loud and low, hoping Sam might pick up on my exasperation. "Would you _please_ stop kicking your legs, Sam? The momentum is making us swing," I explain wearily.

Sam kicks a bit harder. "I'm bored."

I sigh, again. "How about," I start carefully, "you hold your breath as long as you can. If everything goes black, you win!"

"Or how about we sacrifice you to the parachute gods in hopes that they'll let me down. Do you prefer being shiska-bobbed, or beheaded?"

Shishka-bobbed, personally. But I don't really want to give Sam any ideas. "Oh, I dunno. I figured you'd just EAT me!" Okay, now that shouldn't give her too many ideas, right? I mean, she wouldn't eat a person…right? Dear God, I hope we aren't stranded for too long…Too long being more than a day…

"Speaking of which, I'm _starving_!"

"No, you aren't. Children in Africa are starving."

"Yes I am!" She huffs, then crosses her arms, like me. "I haven't eaten since...since my last meal!"

"…Right." I just don't feel like getting into it today. And that one, you know, it's too easy. "Alright, let's just undo the harness, _slowly_, and see if we can ease ourselves down the side of the tree - SAM!" Yeah, so much for the whole _slowly _and _ease_ thing. Well, I shouldn't be surprised. That's not really Sam's style. But supposedly it's her style to ruffle my hair when my body is the only thing keeping her from crashing into the ground. The _rock solid_ ground. "Oww…Sam…ow…get off me…ow…" Ah, who needs ribs anyways?_..._Told you she was the real danger…Ow…

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Okay, seriously. Is it even possible for one kid to talk so much about his new haircut? For the love of mayonnaise!

Oh, hey, it's Gibby here. Yeah, you know, the Gibby who was supposed to be featured in iCarly's live skit for the iWebs about a bean who was raised by popsicles. Can you see where that bean might have some dramatic identity issues? Anyway, Sam said I already look like a bean, so they wouldn't have to spend as much on costume and makeup and all that chizz…Yeah, Sam can be kind of rude and enforcing sometimes, but she's alright. I might even admit that she's a total babe, and I whip my shirt off around her as often as possible, but it's no use. I mean, Sam and Freddie, you know, they're always undressing each other with their eyes and that sort of thing. I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about. Somebody with the mentality of a poptart would know what I'm talking about.

Hey, speaking of poptarts, I've totally got one in my back pocket. Thank God. Now maybe I won't have to resort to eating this fruit I'm stuck with. And speaking of haircut boy…

"Yeah, dude, your hair is great. Very fluffy and, uh, _clean_. So don't you think we should find Wozza, or the others, or something?"

The Nevel kid is sprawled out under a shady tree, next to the little watering hole I'm currently sitting in. I guess we somehow managed to crash land on the only oasis in the Australian desert. Well, I'm not surprised. That's my life, 100%. My mom tells me I was a lucky baby. I was born sideways after all, and it's common sense that that makes you a lucky shining star. Think I'm wrong? Who's the one sitting in the oasis…and, er, who's the one at the computer with possibly a cold sugary drink in their hand…eh, never mind.

"Well, Nevel, do you think we should look for them?"

"You can go find the others, if you'd like, Gibbals. Personally, I wouldn't mind if they died in the heat."

"Yeah, well, I hope your mom dies in the heat." I don't know why I'm standing up for them right now. I'm not particularly happy with Carly and the others at the moment. Would you be if they forced you to act like a talking baked bean for weeks in rehearsal, only paying you with occasional treats and pats on the back (smacks on the stomach in Sam's case), and then they dragged you along to Australia to perform the demoralizing skit in front of millions, only to crash land, and leave you stuck with the biggest fruit on the planet? I think not.

"That's it! Next person who says something about my mother is going to suffer dearly!" Nevel shouts, kinda sounding like he's talking to more than one person. Uh…I look around. Aside from that three stump that looks like Mrs. Briggs, I'm pretty sure it's just me. This Nevel kid seems, I don't know, unstable? Yeah, up a gum tree. "I'm serious, Gibbly. Leave my mother alone. I have a blog, and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Man, you're fruity. I mean, I had my suspicions about Freddie back when he had a squeaky voice, and only hung out with girls, but YOU…"

"You're right, the tech producer is a bit fruity." Uh, haircut boy seems to have missed my point, but conversation is conversation. If 'fruit' is in the topic, I can roll with it.

"Yeah, he's kinda weird. But he's alright," I shrug. "I mean, he saves me from Sam on a daily basis, and all of the girls in our grade think he's _so_ hot, but-,"

"He is boyishly handsome, yes," Nevel chimes, nodding his agreement. "With a cute half grin."

Wait, WHAT? "Uh, are you, like, how do I put this…? Uh, like, _you know_?"

"What?"

"Like, uh…Like, rainbow friendly?"

"Hmm?

"You know…Rhymes with 'maggot'?"

"I am lacking comprehension of you words, young Gibboid."

"Huh?"

Nevel sighs, rubbing his eyes. "Let's see," he mumbles to himself. "How do I communicate with the dimwit? Mmm…Hey, Gibbstien, I'm not picking up what your throwing down! I'm not being glazed by your doughnut…"

"Eh?"

"I don't know what you mean!"

"Never mind, I forgot what we were talking about."

Nevel rolls his eyes, muttering something, and goes back to lounging in the shade. I go back to cleaning out the creases in between my toes in the surprisingly clean water. He watches me for a moment, scoffs, then closes his eyes. Then he resituates himself a few time, then again, and one more time, and I start to hum the tune to 'Walking on Sunshine' by that one really old band. Nevel cracks one eyelid, and I can tell he's glaring even with just the sliver of his eye that I see. I hum a bit louder. He grunts, then rolls over, and tucks his forearm underneath his head. Hmm…do you smell that?

"I don't understand it!" Nevel suddenly bursts, popping upright, eyes wide, whiny expression set. "I mean, what's so special about iCarly? I never give them good reviews on Neveloscity, and they _still_ have all these viewers!"

"Is that all you think about, foiling their happiness?"

He ignores me. I sniff the air again, and go back to my toes, listening vaguely as he drones on. "So they have _random dancing,_ and simultaneous over pronunciation of silly words, big deal! It's just two chicks and their gay boyfriend they share! Honestly!" And with that, he settles back into the tree stump with a "Hmph."

Okay, so he knows the meaning of the word, for jam's sake! Is he just ignorant? Gah, I'm just glad that I didn't take off my shirt earlier when I was feeling the urge.

"Do I smell like Tabasco sauce to you?"

"Bathing, Gibbly, is a virtue that shan't be taken lightly."

Oh my God, he's gay.

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**A/N: Okay, cool...Oh, and I don't really think Nevel is gay, but I suppose Gibby would, you know? Uh...right, well I can't wait to write more Gibby/Nevel. And I think I am spelling Nevel's name wrong, but ah well. Thanks, bye. **


	3. Day 1: Dusk

**POV's in the following order: Spencer, Sam, then Nevel. Oh, and I think Nevel is actually spelled _Nevil_, but if it doesn't bother you, and it doesn't bother me, I'ma just keep it the way I have it.****  
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**A/N: Spencer's POV is pretty short compared to the others. I still haven't gotten to the action packed parts of the Carly/Spencer plot. Uh, Sam's is not very action packed either, but it's good build up for the next chapter. Nevel's is, well…you'll see. **

**Disclaimer: I disclaim all with the exception of Wozza and Francis and (spoiler alert!) the creepy ragtag band of dudes who could possibly be cannibals.**

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Whoa. Do you see that? Holy pudding…No, seriously. You see it? The big, pink, fuzzy gerbil - no, bunny. Though gerbils are way cooler than bunnies. I mean, they're cousin to the guinea pig, which is awesome, 'cuase it rhymes with Winnipeg. THAT'S in Canada.

Right, but the pink bunny thing, seriously. Creepy, man.

"Do you see that, Carls?"

"The rock, the dirt, the other rock, that rock, or the tree?" she asks, her eyes closed, still leaning against the trunk of one of the few trees in the Abe Lincoln beard shaped grove we found. "Or are you talking about the rock over there?"

"No…Well, that rock is pretty rockin'…" I wait for her to laugh at my pun. It doesn't happen. "No, the giant bunny over there."

She cracks her eyes open a smidge. "What bunny?"

"Look!" I point frantically across the barren, heat glazed, red plain to the blurry creature making it's way toward us.

"There's no bunny, Spencer."

"No, there is! It's huge, and pink, and hopping, and skipping, and there's something seriously twisted about it, because bunnies don't skip!"

She sighs, then sits up, and offers me a sympathetic smile. "We need to get you out of the heat."

"Okay, then why do you keep saying we need to stay here?" Seriously. I have been suggesting over and over that we go find Sam and Freddo, or Wozza, or at least a thrift store or something. This one time, I bought a 70's button up shirt from a thrift store for twenty five cents. Thrift stores rock! Carly made me throw it away though. She said it looked like AIDS in clothing form. Anywhoozle…

"Look, Spence, we could get lost out here. It's better if we just stay put, and let someone come find us."

"That is the lamest thing I've ever heard! And shirts can't have STD's!"

"What?"

"Uh…never mind the last part."

"Right."

"Come on, Carls. Let's get out of here! Maybe we can find some water or the others…though preferably not that Nevel kid. Or maybe we can find cell phone service somewhere. Stupid, expensive, overrated PearPhones."

Carly picks up a small stone, and tosses it up a few times, crossing her legs, making it clear that she isn't going anywhere soon.

"_Carly…_" I whine.

"No, Spencer! I've already told you a hundred times! It's just not smart wondering around the Australian outback when you have no idea where you are!" she yells at me, again. "We're better off sticking around here where we know we'll have shade and some shelter in case there's a storm."

"Okay, fine, but we don't have any water, or any food, or any games, or any Tivo. We are going to need to go find someone or something eventually," I explain. "And we don't have any marshmallows."

"Spencer, we aren't going anywhere, okay?" she says firmly. I can tell that she's losing her patience, and I don't know if it's the heat, or this situation, or what, but I see no problem with pushing her over the edge this time.

"Carly! I am your older brother, and I am telling you we are going to go. So drop the 'tude, missy, and get your little rear in gear-,"

"Spencer! I am not going anywhere!"

"Why not?" I ask desperately.

"Because, if we start off looking for food and water and civilization, that means that we are officially stranded!" she bursts, chucking the stone in her hand against a tree. It ricochets off the trunk, and pelts me in the back of the head. Carly doesn't seem to notice. "Okay, Spencer? Let's just stay here and wait for Wozza."

I sigh, knowing this is uncharacteristic from me, but, "Carly, stop being a spoiled teenager. Yeah, okay, it's not cool that we might be stranded, but we need to buck up and face the reality!"

"You can leave," she says quietly. "There's no one stopping you."

I sigh, again, and rub my eyes for a moment. Though it's tempting for my restless nature, and as much as I wish I could, I can't just leave her. It gives me weird-o pains in my chest to think about it, you know? About her all alone under the stupid tree, getting attacked by a wild pack of kangaroos. Yeah, I can't just leave her here alone. Darn big brother love. Anyway, though the prospect of asking that pink bunny for directions is appealing, I guess I'll just stay put for now. "Naw, Carls. You know I'm not going to leave."

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"I swear, Freddie, I'm gonna leave!"

"Go ahead! See if I care!"

"Oh, you'll care once the dingoes get a hold of you, and I won't be here to save your pansy ass!"

Freddie throws another clump of mud at me, emphasizing his, "I don't care, Sam! I want you to leave! I'd be better off without you eating my food supply anyway!"

I get two handfuls of mud, and squish them into his face. Mmm…Yeah, I'm not sure how we got into this predicament…I actually didn't think it was a sinkhole filled with mud when I stepped on it. And I especially didn't think that Freddie would be all chivalrous and dive in after me. Nub. Anyway, now we're both in a mud hole. But it's alright. Better than the hot dirt. The sun is seriously being a dick.

"What food supply? You have a food supply?"

Freddie immediately realizes his mistake. "Uh…no…there's nothing edible in the bag strapped to my back…"

"You suck at lying," I tell him, pouring a bit more mud over his dumb head, and grabbing for his backpack. Damn, he's got it, like, major strapped to his body…But mama's getting her some eats, right now!

"Ow! Sam, stop it!"

I've got most of his body submerged under the mud, by force, and I'm tugging at his backpack with one hand. He struggles a bit, and I tug on his hair before he finally allows me to tear the bag from his body. I wade to the other side of the mud hole, and pour the contents of his bag out on the dirt. Ah hah!

"So, Fredward," I say, low and threatening, as I turn back to him, fondling my newly discovered treasure. "You thought you could hide a box of granola bars from Mama? Boy, you were mistaken…"

"No, Sam!" he starts, throwing his hands in the air and struggling through the waste deep mud toward me. "That's the only box I have, Sam. We need to savor it, and-SAM!"

Dude, they aren't Fat Cakes, and they aren't ham, but I'm starving after a whole day of wandering, and watching Dorkboy dork around, and playing in the mud, so why is he surprised that I've already devoured more than half of the box?

"Okay, that's enough!" he yells, lunging out and managing to catch the box in his hands. He struggles to rip it away from me, and the nub jerks the box so all the bars fall out all over the place. The next few minutes are mainly filled with me calling him names and shoving mud inside every hole on his body…er, face…while we dive below the surface to find the missing granola bars.

Okay, so we found, like, three of 'em. So I eat one now, then Freddieo can have one, maybe, then I can have the last one. I tell him this.

"No! We will split the last on in half! It's not fair that you get twice as many as me!"

I throw a clump of mud at his face for good measure, you know. "It's plenty fair! I've got a hardcore metabolism, so there's no use in putting it to waste. You know those bars will go straight to your hips, Fredster."

He chucks some more mud at me. "Sam, you are being unreasonable. Now let's just get out of this mud pool, and go find the others, or at least some food. Maybe we can climb a tree, and see if I get service up there."

I am still wiping the remnants of his last attack off my face with the back of my hand when I grab a fistful, and don't bother throwing it when I can just slam it into the side of his head. He looks surprised, then angry, then determined as he scoops up a mud mass with two hand, and smirks as he dumps it on top of my head. "Alright, you ready to go get washed up?" he asks, laughing at my dangerous expression hidden by the mud.

Yeah right! Like I'm going to let him have to last move. Pssht.

"Ew, Sam! I had my mouth open and everything!" And while his mouth is still open this time, I chuck another handful at him. He sputters mud for a moment, regaining his composure. Then he palms the top of my head, shoving me below the surface. Heh, now I've got him fighting back, which usually leads to good times. I allow him to over power me for a moment, knowing that this will keep him coming back for more, and I'm in the mood for some cheap entertainment as we've seen nothing but rocks for a few miles now.

So I give him a shining moment, then I use all of my upper body strength and whip myself up, forcing Freddie into a headlock all in one motion. I'm laughing as I dunk his head under this time, but it makes me angry that he's laughing too. And it also make me angry when I let him back up and all he does is swipe some mud off my cheek. He's supposed to be yelling and ranting about how he hates being dirty! But he's just playfully tossing mud at me, trying to goad me on to the point where entertaining irrational decisions cloud my mind. So I toss mud back at him, ruffling his dirty hair, and I wonder vaguely when our interaction switched from competitive to affectionate.

It's when he's got me pinned against the side of the pool, both arms around me, that I remember our previous argument. I push him off a bit, saying, "Alright, Freddo, I'm gonna go now."

"What? What do you mean?"

"You told me you didn't want to be stuck with me, and I said I have no problem leaving, so I'm gonna scoot."

"Sam, I didn't mean it-,"

"Yeah, whatever, dorkwad," I cut him off, pulling myself out of the mud pool, kicking a bit in his face as I get out.

"Where are you gonna go?"

"I dunno, away from you," I shrug.

"But...But it's getting dark, and we should really think about finding some shelter, and if I let anything happen to you, Carly will kill me."

"Anything happen to _me_?" I ask, snorting. "Trust me, Fredlumps, you're the last person I need protection from." He still doesn't look too convinced. Better insult him..."Plus, I'm sick of watching you dork around, you nub."

"Fine!" He starts. "I've got better things to do then have you around and eat all of my food anyway!"

I let out a dry chuckle. "Like what? Hang out with friends you don't have? Or are you going to go drop dead in the heat?" I don't wait for him to reply before I scoop up the granola bars, and take off for what my amazing ham senses tell me is the direction of a deli, also known as civilization. Well, as long as there aren't any pig farms around here. But first I pause, making certain that Fredwardo's attention is on pulling himself out of the mud before I quietly drop two of the bars next to his bag. Then I start on my way away from his dorky self and toward the ham. What? I just want to see it go straight to his hips.

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Let me assure you, dear reader, that today is not my typical Thursday. Or is it Friday? Saturday? Dear me, I seem to have lost track of the week. Let's see here…Well, by making sense of my surroundings, that being Gibbly, I am going to conclude that it's the weekend. Why, you ask? Well, this boy seems a bit like the weekend partier type to me, as it's become norm for him to whip off his shirt and dance in the short twelve hours we've been out here. Therefore, going on how antsy he is acting, I conclude that it's the weekend.

Like I said, I suspect that he's a weekend partier. Like, a paid dancer. Though I don't see what they use him for. Maybe for his…well, I honestly don't think there's much a pudgy eight year old boy has to offer to the night club scene. Maybe he's ten.

At any rate, today is not my typical (insert day of the week here). Not only because I am stranded in some godforsaken wasteland with a male gigolo, but I am usually very cultured.

"Do. You. Speak. English?" The natives still aren't comprehending anything. Well, except maybe that Gibby would make a tasty treat. They keep poking him with sticks, and pinching the extra skin on his arm, sizing him up. "Speak-o English-o?" I would normally make fun of the typical American adding an 'o' to the end of a word to make it sound foreign, but I've tried just about everything else. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

"Pardon me, kid, but you have an unattractive excess of verbiage dribbling from your face."

I sigh relief. "So you _do_ speak English! With a repellent, thick drawl, even for Australians, I will admit. But you understand-,"

"Curve your yammering skull cave, you twit!"

"What?"

"SILENCE, you!" The scruffy, dirty, badly trimmed man who appears to be the leader of his small entourage gives me one threatening finger jab, then goes back to overseeing the sizing up of young Gibbals. "So, what is he?" the man suddenly inquires of me. "Your pet?"

Gibby lets out a quick whimper as they poke him again. "Yes, he's my pet, and I would appreciate it if you'd stop prodding him with sharp sticks," I say quickly, as confused as you may be about the fact that I am standing up for this shirtless dolt.

"Alrighty, mates, let's head out."

Ha! There. My bravery may be occasionally shrouded by frequent calls for my mother, but your typical mama's boy could not single handedly fight off six large, criminal looking, Australian men. I will have you know that I shan't be considered a mama's boy.

"Hey, you. Little ear basher."

Ear basher is fine, though.

"Yes, sir?"

He motions to a few of the other men in his ragtag band of natives, and they produce a bundle of rope, then stalk toward Gibby. "Don't try anything smart, now. We are taking your little mate with us-,"

"You won't take me alive!" Gibby bursts, writhing out of the rope, and managing to land a few good punches on the approaching men…who are beginning to look a bit like pirates to me, but I digress.

The men out number and oversize Gibby, so it's not too hard for them to bind him in the ropes again. And it's a bit comical, if not entertaining, I might add. Mmm…Maybe I should be helping the youthful, half naked boy instead of observing with interest. "Uh…Excuse me, sirs, but I can't let you just take my, uh, my Gibby like that."

"Listen to this kid, Boomer!" the shabby man tying Gibby's wrists together calls to the leader. "He just can't shut up his bloody laughing gear."

The mangy man allegedly called 'Boomer', laughs at this, turning to me. I hardly believe that this Boomer character still carries his birth name. And I look down upon nicknaming because I had no friends as a young child as I would usually hide in the school yard slide and hack into the school system in order to change _tator tots_ to _broccoli_ on the lunch menu instead of playing tag. But I am proof that there are still children in the world who care about nutrition. So I had no friends, and therefore had no nicknames. If I could choose one, though, it'd be Thunderball or Butch Nelson, you know. Something me. Something outlaw biker-ish.

"Alright, little mate, you can stop being such a boofhead now. We don't want you…go ahead…bugger off."

"No!" I wiggle my neck, pulling myself up to full height. "I am not about to bugger off, or on, or bugger anything for that matter! Where young Gibbly goes, I go." Did I really just say that? Ugh…It must be the heat. I typically don't associate, especially attach myself with people of my age, or people in general unless in an online chatroom. But I suppose that the fact that nobody wants to wander in the Australian wilderness on their lonesome comes into account now.

"Yeah," Gibby yells, still struggling, but not getting anywhere. "Nevel has a blog, and he's not afraid to use it!"

"I don't know what the bloody hell a _blog _is, but it doesn't sound tasty," Boomer states decisively. "Alright, we'll just take both of you'se little carpet grubs with us. Just keep your pie holes shut, or every bastard and his dog is gonna done know what we did."

I must say, the Australian slang just grows more amusing by the second. But this situation is not keeping up quite so. "We aren't going anywhere with you…gentlemen," I say, retreating a few steps due to the stench pouring forth from the Boomer fellow's rotted mouth.

Boomer sighs, rubbing his eyes in exasperation. "Should I go get the means of enforcement, sir?" one of the men asks.

"No, no, not now. No need to buggerise around like that."

Means of enforcement? …Oh dear God, they have chainsaws! I saw it on a movie once where this large fellow called Leatherface slices the poorly casted actors to pieces with a huge chainsaw, then he sews their faces together and makes masks, and lastly, he eats them…I haven't fallen asleep without my dear mother next to me since the fourth grade when I was invited to my first and only slumber party. Who knew that my peers enjoy gore and wetting themselves? Okay, only I wet myself that time, and they cordially haven't invited me back…Oh, wait, Leatherface eats the characters, so that means-

"You're cannibals!" I conclude outwardly.

"Just get in the van." They are already attempting to shove Gibby in, who is now completely bound. "We've got candy," Boomer adds hopefully.

"My mother taught me better than to take candy from strangers. Six men show up in the middle of nowhere, driving a safari van, and expect me to think they have a legitimate offer of candy…Pssht. I know better than to fall victim to your fickle reliability, you inbreds!" Mama didn't raise no fool.

"We've got bubble bath."

"Hot damn, tie me up! You good to go, Gibby?"

"Dude, I was sold on the candy."

Okay, so maybe it sounds a bit like I just caved there, but I take my hygiene very seriously. And if you want to know the truth, this isn't the first time I've allowed myself to be tied up and thrown into the back of a van for a bath…It's a long and very involved story that I'm sure I would tell with flawless detail, and charming flow, with carefully picked adjectives and well structured sentences, but that Spencer fellow's POV was hardly a thousand words, so I mustn't be greedy. Though I doubt you enjoy listening to that man-child ramble, or that short blonde thug go on about violence and being rude when you can listen to a civilized and cultivated narrator like myself. And there goes the forth wall…

Well, goodbye to you for now. I'm off to go somewhere with a van full of cannibals and my pet Gibby to go take a bubble bath. Preferably alone on the last part.

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**A/N: See? Nevel's not gay (maybe bi). There's proof with the last line. Gibby is just under the impression that he is. And now you know that Nevel is under the impression that Gibby is a gigolo/paid dancer, so it's fair. Oh, and that band of natives who kidnapped Gibby and Nevel at the end there, they aren't really cannibals. You'll find out what their plans are later, and it has nothing to do with eating human beings…at least not thus far…you never know. **

**Okay, Nevel and Gibby are getting most of the action at this point. But we have definitely got some snags coming up for both Carly/Spencer and Freddie/Sam, and I will eventually get more animated with their POVs as well once the action kicks in. Okay, thanks. Leave a review. It's so easy. I'm lovin' the inspiration. And I wrote a Nevel voice for you! **


	4. Day 2: Dawn

**POVs...Carly-Freddie-Gibby, but I hope you can just tell by now.  
A/N: Okay, this one seems a bit random, but I am setting up some stuff for a plot that I actually have planned for once. Freddie's POV is a bit wordy, so here's the official warning. But I still think it sounds kinda-sorta like him and his thoughts, I'm hoping. Okay, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Though I did almost buy an iCarly beach towel once, but I refrained. **

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So…Concern is just one of the many emotions you feel when you wake up, suddenly warm after freezing your unladylike word off all night because SOMEONE can't light a fire unless it's caused by unwanted, spontaneous combustion. …And your surrounded by a heard of sheep. That's just a strange time, you know.

"Spencer! Where in the _hell_ did these sheep come from?" I ask sharply, sitting up, pushing one away who has taken an interest in my hair. I rub my groggy eyes, and focus in on Spencer, sitting on a stone in the middle of the flock, petting a small lamb in his hands and humming the tune to 'Walking on Sunshine'. Right.

"Oh, good morning, Carly-Warly."

"Don't you Carly-Warly me, Spencer Vincent Shay!"

"Hey, you aren't allowed to use my middle name. It's so embarrassing."

"Where did the sheep come from?" I ask, more shrill…Yeah, I didn't really mean for my voice to go up a few octaves there, but it got the large toddler's attention.

"I don't know," he starts defensively.

"_Spencer…_"

"Well, when a mama sheep, and a daddy sheep _really_ love each other--,"

"Spencer!"

"I don't know where they came from! They just showed up! And they won't leave."

"Spencer."

"Okay, _maybe_ I fed them our supply of gathered roots and berries to get them to stay. Maybe."

I push the same sheep away, who seems to think my hair is grass. "Spencer, if you don't get these sheep out of or camp _right _now…"He's ignoring me, concentrating on the wildflower necklace he's weaving. I look around and find that almost every single sheep has one around it's neck. Uh oh. He's growing attached to them. "Look, Spencer, if you are going to keep them around, maybe we can…you know…if we really need to, that is."

"NOO!" he shrieks, lashing out with every limb, protectively tucking as many of the sheep into his body as he can. "You are _not_ going to eat them!"

"I didn't mean eat them! Ew. No. I meant, like, we could sheer them if and use their wool for a lot of stuff."

"Oh…"

"Yeah…"

"Mmm…"

"Okay, where did the sheep come from again?"

"I really have no idea. I just woke up this morning, and there they were, licking my face," he says lovingly, ruffling one of the sheep's head.

"So, is their owner around here somewhere? Like, the shepherd, or whatever."

"Not that I know of…But I did find this!" He reaches back, beaming as he produces a crate filled with various objects.

"Good…?"

"It is good! There's marshmallows in here!" He starts removing the items, each more random than the one before, setting them carefully at his side, his face brightening childishly with each one.

"Is that a can opener?"

"Hey, hey, hey," Spencer starts, "There's some rope in here. We could use that."

"Where did you find this?"

"It was sitting over there in that brush," he says, motioning back, accidentally hitting one of the sheep in its face. "Matches! Carly, we can start a fire now!"

"Do you think whoever this crate belongs to is still around?"

"Who cares!" Spencer finally gives up with the one by one thing and dumps the crate's contents onto the ground, pushing a few sheep out of the way. "Hey, Carls, there's a camera here," he says, tossing it too me.

I glance at my image in the reflection of the cameras lens, then I'm shrieking. "Oh my God, that zit is huge!"

"Oh, yeah, I didn't think I should tell you about that, 'cause we've got survival and all that to worry about, and I knew you'd be pretty worked up."

"Oh, I hope we don't get rescued any time soon, or someone's gonna see it."

Spencer stops rummaging through the box and looks up at me with concern. "You'd rather remain stranded then have your rescuer see your zit?" Duh. What if he's hot? You understand me, right? "It's not even that big, Carls."

"It could have it's own zip code!" A sheep sounds its agreement with a short 'ba'.

"Hey, I think this is a treasure map!" Spencer exclaims, unraveling a yellowish piece of paper, revealing what does indeed look like a map of some sort. "Dude, let's find it!"

"Better yet, maybe that map can help us find our way to civilization--," I am suddenly cut off by some loud rustling in the nearby brush. "What's that?"

"Shh," Spencer hastens. We listen for a while before Spencer whispers, "Uh, usually the rustling in the bushes is followed by us running and screaming."

Uh oh. What is it? The owner of the crate? Wolves hunting down the sheep? Or worse…a hot Australian coming to rescue us who is going to be repulsed by my zit? Stay tuned…

I've always wanted to say that! Oh, squee.

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There honestly haven't been too many times when I've been disappointed in myself. Well, there was the one time when I received a D on my green project that I slaved over, night and day, from assignment to due date. Do you know how many anxiety attacks I had that week? And then there was the time I had Carly right outside my door, right? And we were talking, and she was giggling (flirting, children), and before I could make a move, she just suddenly slipped back into her apartment. I couldn't get the picture of FAIL in big red letters out of my mind that time. And then there was this time…I dunno. Sam was all worked up about something with this girl named Missy, and, long story short, I pretty much completely let her down. But I, you know, fixed it.

Man, but that thing with Carly…Seriously, I was feelin' it. She was feelin' it. What is wrong with you, Benson?

Right, well, I am obviously disappointed in myself at the moment. I know I can be a bit of a nudge, but I wouldn't just rant without reason. And no, I'm not disappointed because I let Sam go the other night, and she probably spent the night _God knows where_, and is doing _God knows what _as we speak. I honestly don't care. Frankly, she kind of pisses me off, and I don't need her obnoxious company maiming my chance of survival.

What really disappoints me is that I pride myself in being level headed, right? But instead of finding a watering hole and washing myself off the other day after I got out of the mud pool, then building a shelter, and finding a steady food supply to last me a day or so, I ended up conking out curled up in the parachute, trying to decided whether or not I should go find Sam.

The choice has been made. No, I'm not going to go looking for her. She would never return the favor in a billion years, if by some godforsaken chance I'm still in contact with Sam at that point. My mom is a psycho religious, so the idea of an afterlife has been shoved down my throat since day one. I would be very obliged if Sam was not a part of my afterlife. That means I went to hell, right?

Okay, I'm getting off track here. I just wanted to let you know that I have successfully had a fire going since about seven this morning with a few dry sticks and some pocket lint. Yay for early years spent in boy scouts! And I fashioned the nylon parachute into a tent type shelter thingy. I found a water supply close by. I figured there would be some around somewhere, as I'm camped out next to a giant mud pit, which requires water. I found this tree that has some sort of shiny red fruit growing from it…I just hope they aren't poisonous, because I've eaten about four of them now. Oh, and lastly, I constructed functioning fishing poles out of a few sticks, my shoelaces, and a keychain from my bag for a lure.

But honestly, I'm disappointed that it took me so long to finally buckle down and build a camp. I would've never gotten this done with Sam here, you know, so I'm still glad that we decided to part ways last night. It's hard to keep a level head when you've got to take care of an overly aggressive, immature five year old in the Australian outback, agreed?

Plus, I'm way more productive without her. And I'm not worrying about how unproductive she probably is right now, because she's the one who insisted that she wasn't going to stick around, and that's not my fault. She has enough sense to not get eaten, or not get heat stroke, right? Well…it _is_ Sam. She's either going to be an idiot, and find herself dead, or she's going to go all Rambo on everything, and kill enough small animals to last her awhile. Mmhmm.

So…

Man! I've got everything set up, a fire going, a shelter built. I'm full from granola bars that Sam forgot and that unidentified fruit that I probably shouldn't have eaten. I also built a huge HELP out of rocks in the open so it will be visible for planes. Now, I'm seriously just bored as hell. And it's hot. And there's no one to talk to, or better yet, yell at and maybe start a pointless argument with.

Which doesn't mean anything. I just like to argue in general.

But still, it's boring without anyone around, you know? I mean, this is probably not the right place or time to be thrill seeking, being as I'm stranded in the Australian outback, but…

I'm just gonna walk a few miles, okay? See if I can find any of the others, that's all. No one in particular.

Is it just me, or are there a lot of dead skeletons around this place? Oh, dead skeletons. Heh, that's an oxymoron. How funny. Okay, it's not really that funny. Just mostly redundant. One must find a way to entertain themselves while trekking a barren wilderness on foot and alone, you know. So if you don't mind, I'm going to laugh at my jokes and be perfectly fine with it.

Gah, this is so flipping boring! She just _had_ to up and leave. Such a Sam thing to do. I feel bad for her future husband and children.

Oh, uh, sorry about that little outburst. I seriously don't care that she's gone. It's just a bit boring without her, that's all. And I can't help but to scan the blistery wilderness for her as I walk.

Okay, so _maybe_ this is proof that without Sam, my life would be pretty much boring.

And boring is safe. So, I think I'm just gonna turn around and head back now…

"FREDDIE?!"

Ah, chizz. "Sam, what are you doing in a tree?" Then I see the swarm of dingoes around her, and immediately stop making my way toward her far off form.

"JUST HELP ME OUT!"

And now I can't help but smirk. "I specifically remember you yelling something about 'not being around to save my pansy ass from dingoes' at me the other day! Isn't this just ironic!" I call to her from my safe hiding spot up the hill.

She struggles a bit in her perch, almost losing her hold. I gasp for a second, then I'm smirking again, because it's not often when what I say gets Sam to almost fall out of a tree into a pack of hungry dingoes. "FREDWARD!"

"Sam."

"I swear, boy, I'ma kill you after you save me!" she calls over the snarls of the swarming dingoes.

"Fine! Fine!" I yell back, still smirking. But now I have to think of a way to lure four starving wild dogs away from a vulnerable girl in a tree…

"WELL?"

"Chill, Sam! I'm just going over the pros and cons, trying to decided if it's worth saving you."

"You better save me, so I can come down there and kick your little nub ass!"

And now, I'm brainstorming ways to get Sam safely down from the tree so she can be out of harm's way, and then kick my ass. Story of my life.

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"I am not gullible, I am merely a saint. It's my first reaction to trust people, you know," Nevel whines …again.

"There's a pale of water in the john, if you're still hung up 'bout that, you little seppo."

Is 'seppo' Australian for 'stereotypical gay kid'? Hey, guys. Uh…so Nevel is pretty much freaking out because turns out there is no bubble bath. Or candy, for that matter. Oh, and Nevel told me that he figured these dudes were cannibals, and they were gonna eat us, right? Yeah, turns out they are actually circus folks, and they want me to be in a skit they are going to perform. Nevel just kind of tagged along. But I was talking with Boomer, and they don't see any potential in Nevel as anything more than a nag, er, and an ear basher, and a twit, and a queerboy. Nevel especially doesn't have what it takes to be in the circus! We can't all be me.

"Honestly, Gibby, this is you'se bloody calling!" Boomer says, beaming.

I nod serenely. "I feel it."

Boomer tosses me a cool bottle of some Australian pop called 'Pop' (Australians are so clever). We sit quietly for a moment in our uncomfortable lawn chairs, enjoying our Pop, listening to the rotted wood of the deck creek, watching Nevel PMS about not having a bath. "Are you up to just 'bout anything, would'ya say?"

"Eh…Like, would I do anything you guys asked for the circus?"

"Aye."

"Oh, just give him a damn pole and a mirrored room!" Nevel shouts.

"Right…" Boomer starts, leaning in toward me. He whispers, "That fruit loop you hang around with puts a bit of a damper on everything."

"Tell me about it, dude."

"Can we drop him off in the wilderness again, or let him get chased around by our pet dingoes a bit?"

"I can hear you," Nevel snaps.

"You have real dingoes?" I ask.

"Oh, yah. The rigdy didge."

"Sweet chizz, can I see 'em?"

Boomer smiles his toothless grin, and pulls a thin silver tube from the pocket of his dirty flannel shirt. Hmm…I wonder if they will give _me_ an awesome flannel shirt if I join their circus. I mean, that seems to be the norm around here…The dude named One-Eyed Jack wears sleeveless flannels under his overalls. I could dig their dress code.

Boomer takes the silver whistle to his lips, and gives it a hard blow. Man, I couldn't get that sentence out without it sounding dirty. Sorry. Right, so he blows (sorry), and there's no sound at all. "It's a wolfie whistle," he explains. "Only the doggies can hear it. They'll be here in a bit. So, what would you say your skills are? Skills that can help us out in the circus, that is."

"Well…I can dance like you wouldn't believe." Nevel snorts at that. "Shut up, you fruit! You're just jealin' because they don't want you."

"Actually," Boomer starts, "We could use that little whacka to kill some flies around here. Jumbuck!" Some tiny chick supposedly named Jumbuck comes out of the shabby cabin with an apron, and an angry expression. "Jummy, why don't you take this Nevel bloke inside and get him fly swatting."

Whoa, Jumbuck. That name is so badass.

"I don't want to _swat flies_," Nevel hisses, disgusted.

"We'll give you a shiny nickel for everyone you get, aye?"

"Pssht. I've been paid more to make three minute appearances at children's birthday parties."

"Fine then. Jumbuck?"

Jumbuck scowls up at Nevel, cracking her knuckles. "What's a petite lady like you going to do to me?" Nevel asks, snorting once.

"She's short and skinny, but she's strong. Her first baby, it come out sideways. She didn't scream or nuthin'." Is it just me, or have there been more mentions of sideways born babies in this story than your average fan fiction? Hmm…

So, Jumbuck forcefully gets Nevel going on swatting flies. Boomer and I continue on talking about my huge list of skills. "Uh, I'm just pretty much a BAMF in general, you know."

"BAMF?"

"Oh, uh, bad ass mother--,"

"This is a K+, Gibby!" Nevel calls from inside.

"I get the idear, little mate," Boomer says. "Go on."

"Well, I don't wanna brag, but I am kinda a master chess player."

"Really?"

"No, not really. But, uh, I can eat with chopsticks."

"Good. Right on'ya."

"And I know every Jackson Five song, word for word. Uh, I realize this is insanely impressive, but I seriously know how the seventh Harry Potter books ends, and I didn't even read a tiny bit of that boring, wordy, oversized series." I allow Boomer to nod admirably, then go on, "I have solid proof that the Tooth Fairy is real, but I'd have to kill you if I let you know what it is."

"'Course."

"Let's see…I can do a perfect impression of a white backed gorilla's mating call."

"No bloomin' kiddin'?"

"Maaahhaghaghaghraw mahragh…Mawrghmaw--you get the idea." I can see Nevel shake his head disapprovingly behind the screen door as he swats, and misses. "You just mind your own business, Papperman. We all know your crazy jealous." Boomer chuckles, Nevel scowls, and I go on, "I know every line to the movie 'Snakes on a Plane'. Every single line. I collect stamps. I can pick up anything with my toes, and I can type with 'em, and eat with 'em too. I once beat up a man with a prosthetic leg."

"You beat up a man missing a leg?"

"Naw, I beat up some chump trying to steal my gramma's purse using her prosthetic leg."

"Oh, right, go on."

"I glow in the dark."

"No kiddin'?"

"When I get really peeved, I punch holes in walls. I can stay cross eyed for long periods of time. Er, I can say my ABC's backwards if you give me a minute to practice. I know all thirty nine states by heart. Uh…I can stick thirteen cheerios into my bellybutton, last time I counted, that is. Uh…I once went an entire twenty four hour period of non-stop Fruit by the Foot consumption. And, er, oh! I make some _mean _waffles, brother. Mean waffles. And…and…and I was born sideways! And I think that's all."

"Whoa, Gibby! That's a corker of a resume you've got there."

"Oh, I can taste colors. Like, I can tell the difference between M'n'Ms with my eyes closed."

"Really? Bonzzers!"

"AND I have a sixth sense! Oh! And I can blow stuff up with my mind, but it's not big deal."

"You're quite the prezzy! I'm impressed!" Boomer beams. "That cheerio thing, boy, that's some good material, mate." Nevel snorts loudly. "Shut up, you ringy dingy little whacka!" Nevel swats one fly exceptionally hard to show his frustration at being cussed out in Australian. "Alrighty, Gibby, let's talk about your future career here. Blimey! There's a lot you could do fer us. Let's see now…"

Alright, here it is. My future. My chance to shine. My place in the circus, which is definitely my calling.

"We want you to play the main part in this skit of an orphaned baked bean who is raised by potatoes."

…Aw, man! "You mean popsicles?" I ask wearily.

"Oh, look," Boomer starts. "Here come the doggies." As he just announced, four skinny dingoes come bounding up onto the porch. I guess that little whistle dealio did work after all.

"Where were they?" I ask.

"Ah, they prolly just had some poor little chuck backed up in a tree somewhere, all foamin' at the mouth like they was gonna eat 'em or something."

"Mmm."

"Now back to you'se place in our circus…"

Do I really look that much like a bean?  
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**A/N: Okay, sweet. I had way too much fun writing out Gibby's skills. Uh...We'll find out where Spencer/Carly and Sam/Freddie are in the next chapter, cuz I kinda left them in some tight spots. Uh...and Gibby is not going to stand for being cussed at in Austrailian and swatting flies for long, let me tell you. Next one might not be up quite so soon. And I hope my Australian lingo isn't too hard to follow, but I have it pretty watered down. Uh, reviews please! Seriously. I need 'em. Okay, thanks, bye. **


	5. Day 2: Midday

**POVs: Specner, Sam, Nevel.  
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**A/N: Sorry, took me a while to update. I had a few chapters already written up, but then I decided to drastically shift my plot. Story of my life, right. It's a long one, but it's my favorite so far. And everyone should know that the Australian speak in this is stretched for comic means. They don't really talk like that. I mean, some of the stuff is real slang, according to my sources, but they seriously don't all talk like that. Okay, enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Not mizznine. Er, not mine. Sorry, I'm listening to Snoop Dogg for some reason. Okay, go readizzo.**

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It's times like these when… Times like these when… Hmm. Times like these when…

Man, I just mostly want some pie, actually. I was gonna it's say times like these when survival mode just kinda kicks in, but actually I'm just feeling the need for some major comfort food. Pie, preferably. Like, cake is fun to make and all, but when it comes down to it, pie's got your back. Blueberry, cherry, raspberry! We'll throw key lime in the mix too! And, hey, pumpkin! I'm flexible…not like Sam though. That's just - whoa.

Right, so, maybe you are wondering why my inner survivor may or may not be coming out, and why I feel the need for some comfort food at this time. You see, earlier today, we had a little run in with some company lurking in the bushes near our camp.

And now I've got a big, puffy, heart-shaped mark on my forearm. Large birds can be unforgivable. Who knew ostriches bite, anyways?

"Anyways, I thought you knew ostriches bite," Carly says, falling into step with me.

Whoa. "Look, Carls, it just came outa nowhere!" I tell her, struggling to fasten the cloth around the injury on my arm while walking. I'm not a, you know, multi-tasker. I can't really chew gum and walk, so fixing an injury and walking - insanity.

Carly rolls her eyes, but looks amused all the same. She hums something as she pulls the map out of her back pocket again. "Would you say that's Bullrear Rock?" she asks, pointing ahead.

"Does it look like a bull's rear?"

We both cock our heads to the side. "Yeah," she concludes.

"Then we're on the right track - ouch!"

"Spence…here." She holds the map in her mouth while she carefully ties the cloth around my forearm.

"Thanks."

"Yup," she says, smiling. Yeah, I don't wanna sound mean or anything, but since we decided to look for this treasure, and we have purpose in our wanderings, she isn't being such a sour puss. The noticeable change is nice when you've got the agony of being torn away from your sheep friends, and getting bit by an ostrich, AND not having any pie.

Oh, how about coconut cream? Mmm! And, ooh, apple cinnamon! Oh, sweet mercy! Hey, speaking of cinnamon, I met this waitress once named Cinnamon. Wait, she spelled it with an 'S', Scratch that. I met this waitress once named Synnamon. I got her number, durr. But the best thing about Synnamon was Synnamon's friend Bianca. She had green hair, but damn she looked good.

"Do you think I'd look good with green hair?"

Carly looks up at me from behind the map. "I'm not even going to pretend to follow your thought process. Uh, yes, actually. But purple would look better."

"Hmm."

We continue silently through the blistery heat of the midday sun for a few minutes, before Carly looks up form the map again. "Would you say that tree was struck by lightning?" she asks me, gesturing to a rotted piece of wood at our side.

"Uh, sure, I s'pose. Would you say that Ronald McDonald is the sole scariest figure in the advertising biz?"

"Mmm, the giant Marshmallow Man for Stay Puft tires."

"The one from Ghost Busters? Are you crazy? Marshmallows are the shizz, not to be confused with scary," I tell the horribly confused girl, popping one in my mouth. Oh, I've still got a bunch from that box we found this map in. And they have kept me sane so far. Hey, I'm sane.

"And do you think that bush over there is--,"

I pop a marshmallow in her open mouth. "Carls, seriously, stop freaking out. We're on the right path." She nods as she swallows down the beautiful example of fluffy, sugary bliss. Then we're silent for a few minutes, before, "The Stay Puft mascot? Really?"

"Really," she echoes.

"Hmm." Okay, seriously. If you shrunk the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man down to size, and put him and Ronald McDonald in a cage, and gave 'em both, say, medieval flails, the scary clown is gonna win! It's just fact. Marshmallows are probably the single perfect item on this earth (aside form lighty-uppy socks), but I still think McDonald would take it to him, you know? Now, maybe if we gave them a range weapon, like a cheese shooting ray gun, then Stay Puft man might stand a chance, because Ronal McDonald has a stigmatism in his left eye. So, yeah, that's that.

"Hey, Spencer, is that a house up there?"

"Mmm…shack, give or take."

"But," Carl starts, looking down at the map. "But if that was Red Cliffside back there, then this should be the where the red 'x' marks."

"Maybe the treasure is inside."

"Maybe there's no treasure at all," she suggests wearily, skipping up to the front door. "Maybe it's just a map to this house so whoever lives here can find their way back."

"Pssht, naw! That's crazy," I reason, joining her as she knocks on the front door. "We are stranded in the Australian outback. Of course there's treasure." Carly shakes her head at me, then raps on the wood door again. Nothing. "Maybe the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man got to them."

She presses her lips together tight, checks the map out of habit, then knocks one more time. "Let's just check it out," she finally says, turning the knob carefully, revealing that it's unlocked.

I put my hands on her shoulders, pushing her in ahead of me. At first glance the house seems to just be one big square room, but upon further investigation, we can see the loft a few feet down from the high ceiling. The next thing I take in is the strangeness of the place. There's no furniture, aside from a small cot in the corner of the room, the indoor outhouse (which is plain CRAZY), and a discolored refrigerator. "Ooh, maybe they've got pie!" I exclaim, whipping open the cold door of the mini fridge.

"Spencer, this place creeps me out," Carly whispers, looking around at the various items on the counters. "Is that a dog skull?"

"No pie," I inform her sadly. "But there's some spoiled milk, and a dead beetle, if you're interested."

"Why's it so dark in here?" Carly asks, ignoring my kind offer of a refrigerated insect. "There's no light switches."

"And no treasure."

"What's with this red light," she says, flipping on a small lamp.

"Maybe it's a darkroom," I suggest, gathering some black and white prints piled in a water filled basin. "Like, where they develop film and stuff."

"Yeah," Carly says, setting the map down. "Here are some negatives."

"Hey, Carls?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you still have that camera we found in the box?"

"Oh, uh huh." She produces the old camera, and hands it to me. I start readying the camera to develop the film. "What are you doing?" Carly asks.

"Oh, I'm rotating the aperture ring to f8, and would you turn on the enlarger - no, not - don't touch that! Yeah, the big thing that looks like a telescope. Put a piece of white on the base, shiny side up! Okay, now the emulsion--,"

"I get it!" Carly starts. "You went to art school. I get it. Just develop the pictures."

I smirk, and follow her order. She explores the contents of the counter a bit more, a little dejected after she finds the rest of the dog's bones next to its skull. She floats over to the window, pulling back the musty curtain.

"Don't let the light in!"

"Sorry," she says, hastily pulling the curtain shut. "Looks like it's getting pretty bad out there."

"In what way?"

"The sky, it's really overcast. I bet it's going to storm soon."

"Well," I start, moving the print to the developer tray. "It's a good thing we found this place then."

"What if whoever lives here comes back, though?"

"Aw, you kidding me? Nobody could live here," I say, shaking the rusty tongs at her. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we die tomorrow morning because of the fumes we breath in."

"What?"

"Nothing."

She sighs, sinking to the floor, studying the map again, as if suddenly a magical path is going to be revealed that will lead us to civilization. It's a few minutes later when the images are showing up on the four prints I have going. And right off the bat I can pick out the pattern in the pictures. Wait, those couldn't be - uh oh.

"Carly," I call weakly. "You're gonna want to come take a look at these."

----------------------------------------------------

Okay, so maybe you were thinking that my trouble really began when I had to jump out of a plane into the Australian wilderness. I thought so too. That is, until Sam found a field knife stuck in a tree.

Oh, and if you're curious, she was bluffing about the kicking my ass thing last time we spoke.

But the field knife, yeah. Now she thinks she's Rambo, and that's not fun for anyone, trust me.

Fredward! This is my POV, you nub.

Okay, but I just wanted to warn--

Nope, get out, dark wad!

You can be so aggravating!

Yeah, yeah, and you're a sissy girl. We get it. Now let me tell my damn story!

Fine, but you should seriously stop waving that knife around--

How goes it peoples? Sam here. Sam as in NOT FREDDIE!

I get the picture, Sam.

Anyways, welcome to my POV, where Freddie doesn't talk--Don't even start, nub sauce! Right, so I wanted to tell you guys about the best thing that has happened to me so far in this godforsaken waltz through the barren wasteland called an outback…Outbacks are supposed to have all you can eat ribs, not skeletons of dead animals…

Right, but the best thing that has happened to me so far is the kickass field knife I found stuck in a tree on our way back to Freddie's little camp dealio. Of course, saying it's the best thing that happened isn't say much. I mean, this trip hasn't really been a cup of tea, or a stick of jerky, or whatever. First I had to get strapped to a nub, then I had to jump out of a plane with a nub, then I had to stay strapped for hours to a nub while we hung from a tree, and then I threw mud at the nub's face (which was okay, I guess), and then I got chased up a tree by dingoes and had to be saved by a nub. Which reminds me…

Hey, dipwad, we're switchin' to dialogue.

Right, but you don't have to be rude.

"So, dipwad, how did you lure those dingoes away earlier today anyways?"

"I told you, Sam," Freddie starts, "I just threw one rock down there. I don't even think it hit any of 'em, and they all took off in the same direction. Oh, and you're welcome."

"I never thanked you," I tell him, going back to sharpening the long blade in my hands on this smooth gray rock. Freddie sighs angrily, then pokes at the fire some with a stick. "But thanks," I mutter.

"Yeah," he mumbles. He adds a few twigs to the flame, and watches it as it grows slightly, lighting up our dark little nook.

"Why'd'ya think it's so dark? Isn't it, like, the middle of the day?"

"Must be a storm coming," he says, looking around.

"Well then, I better get goin' before things get too bad."

"You're leaving AGAIN?" he asks, pulling away from the fire, and crouching on the balls of his feet, looking like he's ready to pounce on me if I take another step. Heh, which I find kind of amusing, for some reason. I dunno. Never mind.

"No, I'm not _leaving _leaving. I just need to try this bad boy out," I tell him, brandishing the newly sharp field knife.

"Oh, you're hunting?"

I laugh, deliberately loud and long, at how naïve this boy can be. "Oh, young, simple Freddie, no. Mama doesn't go _hunting_. That implies the possibility of failure." I smirk at his bewilderment, then let my eyes fall darkly. "Mama goes killing."

He lets out a barely audible gulp, then goes back to the fire. "Good luck," Freddie says quickly.

I chuckle. "As if I'll need it." Then, while I've still got Freddie's attention, I scoop some of the dark dirt from the ground, and with my index finger I trail two thin marks of black under each eye. Then I rip off my already torn sleeve, and tie it around my forehead. Freddie watches with wide eyes.

"I feel bad for whatever small critter crosses your path today."

"Me too," I growl.

"Alright, have fun, Rambo."

"Yeah, okay." Rambo. I like the sounds of that. In fact, for now on, I'm not going to answer unless he addresses me as such. We'll see if he catches on.

"And, seriously, be careful. I don't want to have to come rescue you from dingoes again."

"_Okay._"

"I'm serious, Sam! There's not just dingoes, but salt water crocodiles in some of the lakes, and not to mention the sink holes."

"I get it, Mom!"

"Oh, and you want to bring a torch or something? It's pretty dark."

Gah, honestly! Mommy Benson is seriously killing the Rambo vibe I'm tryin' to hold. "Naw, Mama has night vision." And with that, I cross over the invisible border of our camp, and into the dark abyss of the surrounding forest, before he can try to sign me up for mother-daughter synchronized pottery classes. He is so much like Crazy.

Immediately my ears are alert, making up for the loss of sight as my eyes adjust to the darkness. After breaking a few twigs, I lighten my footsteps noticeably, and listen. I can't here much of anything--wait, there's a small breeze. It comes through the trees, rustling a few leaves, kissing the hairs on the back of my neck. I can feel goose bumps rising on my bare skin, reacting to the cool wind. Or maybe foretelling the oncoming storm. I do have crazy animal senses like that. At least when I'm in Rambo mode. Then suddenly the breeze is strangled by the sound of snapping twigs. I know those weren't me, because I'm frozen on the spot. My assumptions about what might have caused the noise are confirmed when I hear a low grumble from the nearby brush.

By instinct, I reposition the knife in my hand, more ready to stab, and tighten my grip until my knuckles are white. But then I hear the grumble again, and realize that it doesn't sound much like the something an animal would make. In fact, it's very human-like.

Nice. It's either Wozza, or one of the others, or that little godforsaken mama's boy. Hmm…In case it's the last one, and I'll want to give the creep a good scare, I raise my knife, and let out a battle cry as I push the leaves aside to reveal my company. Uh…company?

Yeah, no one's there. I look left, then right, then repeat, still seeing no one. Okay…I might be a bit freaked out if I weren't positive that I'm on top of the food chain out here.

Right, but I still keep a ready eye on the spot where the noise came from as I back out of the brush. I overshoot the trail I was on, and my heal gets caught in root. The last thing I'm thinking before 'ow' is that I caught a glimpse of something out of place for my surroundings before I go down. I lie still for a moment, holding down my panic as I wait for the air to rush back into my lungs. I guess I hit my head pretty hard, because I'm also waiting for the blotches of black to clear my sight. After a moment, I am breathing steadily, and the spots have cleared enough for me to make out what I've been looking up at.

Shit! Oh…Whoa, it's a face. "Dude, you scared me," I tell the person, trying hard to recognize their features in the dark and past the waning black specs in my eyes. The dude doesn't reply. "Dude?"

I gather my field knife, and ultimately myself, before rising to my feet to meet the dude. Right off I know there's something not right about him, besides the fact that he's hanging upside down from a tree. The dude's really pale, and his eyes are overcast and lifeless…

Wait. Lifeless. Ah man, this dude is dead.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit…Dead bodies, man, not a good time. Now that I've made the correct realization, I am highly aware of the awful smell the dude is emitting.

Okay, what do I do? Check his pulse just in case? Naw, not dead people do _not_ smell that bad. Not even Freddie. Uh, speaking of Freddie, shit. Should I go get him? Shit. No, Freddie'll flip. He'll have an anxiety attack, and probably wet his pants or something. Shit. As amusing as the last part would be, I'm thinking that I need the boy to stay level headed if we want to work toward survival out here. He won't be able to cook fish if he knows that there's a dead body in the woods. Shit.

So, uh, I guess it's just instinct for me to check some pockets when confronted with the dead. Uh, not that, you know, I've been in this situation before or anything. I've just done a lot of handling other people's wallets in my time, so it's merely an impulse to hope this dude's is on him. Plus, I can defend my action here by saying that I'm just looking for some identification of the dead dude, you know. But his pockets are empty. Looks like whoever, or whatever, got to him must have looted him pretty hardcore.

Well, I've been standing by ol' lifeless long enough, I guess. I make my way back toward camp on weak knees, my knife hanging limply at my side, unused. But obviously someone was a bit knife happy already out there, seeing as there was a huge gash in the dude's gut.

"You're back already?" Freddie asks as I join him by the fire.

"Looks that way."

"You okay? You look a little, uh, distracted," he tells me, following my gaze into space.

"M'fine." I pull myself together a bit. Then the memory of hearing someone right before I found that body surfaces, and I have to use every bit of nonchalance I've ever practiced to keep the concern off my face.

"Okay," Freddie shrugs, not sounding too convinced. "You didn't get anything? I thought you went 'killing', or whatever."

"Yeah," I manage.

His face falls a bit, apparently disappointed that he couldn't get a rise out of me there. "I cooked some fish up, if you're interested."

"Naw, I think I'm just gonna take a nap."

"Whoa, you aren't hungry?"

"I, uh, lost my appetite," I murmur. I stride across the clearing, and throw myself down under the parachute tent thingy he made, then let out an authentic yawn. "Hey, Freddo?" I ask, pushing his strewn shoes away from my face.

"Mmm?"

"I think we should move camp."

"Why's that?"

"Uh…" Damnit. Do I tell him? Do I risk him freaking out? Are dead bodies really something to freak out about? Mmm…The Rambo who was born in me when I found that field knife tells me to buck up, and stop worrying. You know, dead bodies. It's whatever. Shit happens. But I doubt Freddikins would feel the same, so I keep my mouth shut. Well, only in theory, 'cause I say, "I dunno, you know me. I don't like being in the same place too long."

He cocks his brow as he pokes at the fire. "Naw, a storm's coming. The canopy is thicker here than anywhere nearby, I've already checked."

"Fine," I say, keen to change the conversation before he gets suspicious. "Oh, here." I toss him the knife. Mmm, not a safe sounding sentence. "Just in case," I tell him as I roll over and tuck my arms under my head, thoughts of what I'd just seen weighing heavy on me now.

He scowls at me, as the blade landed dangerously close to his bare feet. Then his angry expression melts into concern. "Is something wrong?" he asks, picking up the knife and my panicked tone.

"Naw, pssht. Naw. Why would--why would there be anything wrong?"

He rotates the fish on the stick above the fire, watching me all the while. "Sam, get some sleep. You look pretty sick."

As he says it, I notice vaguely that he took the shoelaces out of his shoes, before I puke all over them.

---------------------------------------------

I don't swat flies. I _don't_ swat flies. _I_ don't swat flies. It's just honestly not what I do.

And I don't clean out toilets, and I don't wash out tobacco cans, and I don't sweep up dusty camel manure. Honestly! And if these people weren't such dimwits, maybe they would understand this.

"I am Nevel Pappermin, founder of Neveloscity dot com, head of the Cherry Street book club, and administrator of the Jacob vs. Edward forum! I will _not_ swat another fly!"

"Is he still yappin'?" a gentlemen called One-Eyed Jack (for obvious reasons) asks as he lays a facedown down on the card table. "One king. You're turn, Mr. Gibby."

Gibby watches the unfortunately uneven featured Jack with a suspicious leer. "Bullshit."

"Damn, Gibby, you'se good!" Jack whines, reluctantly collecting the busting pile in the middle of the table. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Boom."

Boomer grins, then picks his teeth with a broken toothpick. "Where was I in me's story?"

"Uh, you were talking about how he'll sneak up on'ya--"

"Right!" Boomer starts. "So the story goes he preys on tourists who decide to test their luck with outback expeditions."

"What'd'ya mean prey?" Gibby asks, laying down his cards. "Three aces." He looks around the table, daring someone to bullshit him. But the inbreds just kind of shrink under his unforgiving gaze.

"Prey, as in he bounces 'em." Gibby doesn't look too enlightened. "He kills 'em."

"Why?" Gibby asks. "Oh, bullshit, Jumbuck." Jumbuck scowls, then takes the pile in the middle.

"Oh, some say he's protectin' some sorta treasure er something," Boomer says, slapping two cards down in the middle of the table. "Two threes. And others say that he's a cannibal, and he scarfs 'em up. But I think he's just lived out here too long, ya know. The heat's gotten to him a bit." Gibby nods, wide eyed.

"Oh, pah-lease," I start, throwing my hip to the side and crossing my arms. "He's just telling fables, Gibby. There's not really a psycho killer abroad out here."

"You sure 'bout that one, skippy?"

"Yes, I'm sure. What do you know anyhow?" I spit.

Boomer chortles, watching the mangy gentlemen to his left called Brodi carefully as he lays down a few cards. "I know that you best not be caught anywhere outside 'round here in the dead of night, er you're gonna be shark bait."

"Right," I say skeptically, rolling my eyes and turning back to the kitchen where I'm supposed to be cleaning out sinks. I scrub, wondering how in the hell I got myself into a slave situation, listening to the faint calls of 'bullshit' from the main room.

"Oi! Nevel! Go git me some more moo juice out the 'fridgie."

"I have had enough of your bossing, and being an insensitive jerk!" I yell tearfully. "I. Don't. Scrub. SINKS!"

"Don't cry, Nevel," Gibby pleads quietly.

"Ah, would ya jist git outa here! I can't take that twit's ear bashing anymore," a dirty fellow called Nipper whines at Boomer.

"You know what, I will go," I announce, throwing my flyswatter and my dish rag down hard, and turning so sharp that I'm sure they felt my parting breeze.

I hear Gibby start weakly, "Nevel…"

I'm already at the rotted front door, so I decided to slam it extra hard, drowning out Gibby's petty reasonings. But apparently he sees it fit to follow me out onto the creaky wood porch, and press, "Why are you going?"

"Are you kidding me?" I spit. "I mean, I realize that you're a half wit and all, but are you really that dumb?"

"Boomer and the guys are real cool. And they've got a circus! And One-Eyed Jack let me carve my name into his peg leg--,"

"That's simply appalling, Gibby. I didn't want to hear that."

"Sorry. So…would you stay, please?" he asks awkwardly.

"And why should I? They might be precious for you, Gibson, but as I don't have any apparent reason to stay, as I'm not too fond of my existence as a man-servant and green sink grime, I'm going to head out."

"But, you'll get killed out there," Gibby warns desperately.

"Oh, please, Gibby. There's not an outlaw preying on tourists out here! Boomer is just a drunk old bastard, he wouldn't know what he's talking about," I inform the confused boy.

"But…why do you wanna go again?"

"I don't swat flies!" And with those parting words, I turn, and skip down the wooden porch steps.

"Wait!" Gibby calls. I sigh, and begrudgingly shift to a halt. He smiles, then rushes back into the house, calling 'bullshit' upon entering. I hear One-Eyed Jack's gruff 'Damnit!'. It's another minute before Gibby surreptitiously sneaks around the side of the house, coming from the back door with what looks like a rucksack filled with Boomer's refrigerator's entire contents. "Let's blow this potato stand!" he exclaims, falling into step with me toward the overcast plain. He looks back at the shack once, and I can see the regret of surpassing his calling to the circus in order to blow a potato stand with me.

"Are you sure you want to come?" I ask, speeding up to a trot, keen to get away before the old drunks get suspicious. "I mean, I understand that you feel the urge to join the circus."

"I just don't want that cannibal outlaw to eat you," he tells me. I watch him hoist the rucksack up a bit on his shoulder, wondering if that strange sentence was some sort of display of verbalized…affection? No. Well, maybe. Hmm…I've never had someone willing to escape from a bunch of inbred circus people and trek across the Australian outback with me so they can save me from cannibals. Is that, er, something…something _friends_ would do?

I look over at Gibby running along beside me, and watch him pick something unnatural out of his nose. Mmm, not my ideal for a friend. But then again, it's not like I know what it's like to have friends. Maybe there's more to this Gibby kid than meets the eye.

"Nevel?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think it, er, unnatural if your belly button isn't really, you know, in the middle?"

…Mmm. "Unnatural doesn't begin to explain it, Biggy."

"Man, my grandma is all off center."

"Ah hah."

Right. More to him then meets the eye. And obviously more to his grandmother then meets the eye as well. Hmm.  
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**A/N: Now, I realize I just threw a crazed killer and some dead bodies into the mix...and suddenly it's not so plausible as far as iCarly plots go. But, if iCarly did do a serial killer chiller special, I imagine it would be something like this. Don't worry, I won't kill anybody off. Maybe. Otay, thanks for reading. I will try to have the next one up asap. Reviews would be helpful. Cheerio. **


	6. Day 2: Nightfall

**A/N: Okay, so I'll warn you that the fourth wall is just pretty much kaput in this one. Uh, also, I warn you that Sam/Freddie's POV thingy is really long...I was planning for theirs to be longer, but, man, Gibby's is about a fourth as long. So, yeah, if seddie or whatever makes you squeamish, sorry. **

**This is my longest ever in between updates, sorry. Not a good record to break. I know you've heard it before, but damn I've been busy. I did this in the very early hours of the morning, the only part of my day I had time. Okay, sorry for the slow update. But hopefully you enjoy. A few more clues are revealed in this one. **

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"Oh my God, are those, like, knives?"

"Yeah," Spencer squeaks as we thumb through the developed photographs. "And that's a pistol. And that's a revolver. And that's a rifle."

"Maybe the person who lives here just has some creepy weapon collection," I try desperately.

"Yeah," he squeaks again. "That makes sense. I guess I'd take pictures if I had this many blood stained blades…Dear God."

"It's cool. It's good. It's alright. I mean, what are the chances that there's some psycho killer abroad--," and then I'm cut off by a booming sound from outside, while the room lights up in a bright flash for a second.

"Lightening," Spencer states. "Bad omen."

"Of course there's gonna be lightening outside! It's storming! That's not an om--," Another boom.

"…The lightening seems to disagree with you."

"Okay, well, we either need to figure out what the hell is going on here, or we need to get out of here and find the others."

"_Now_ you want to get on the move," he complains. "Finally, after you're faced with the possibility of a crazed weapon collector."

"Hey, what are these?" I ask, picking up two thin plastic cards. "They look like ID's of some kind."

"Driver's licenses," Spencer agrees after he plucks on out of my hand.

"Do ya think this place belongs to them?"

"I s'pose," Spencer shrugs. "Odd couple though. The dude has a nose ring and a mo hawk, and this lady looks like she's about ninety, and that's being generous."

"So, what do you think is going on?"

Spencer eyes me, then the cards in his hands, then he glances around the shack. "I'ma look for clues." And with that, eyes darting side to side, he sets of…sniffing things. Right.

"Uh, Spence?" He ignores me. "Spencer?" Nothing. "Okay, Sherlock--,"

"Thank you!"

"--I vote that we just get out of here…Spencer?" He's already halfway up the lost, swiping his finger across the banister as he makes his way up the stairs. He smells, then tastes (ew) the dust on his finger. "Hmm…" he smacks his lips. "Tastes old…and dirty…"

"Spencer…"

"My detective senses are telling my that there must be an old dirt bag who lives here."

"Right, but Spencer--,"

Too late, he's up in the loft. "Whoa! Carly, kid, you should come check it out. There's, like, a dozen more ID's."

"What?" I ask, rushing up to join him. "Uh oh, Spence, that can't be good."

"Yeah…Oh, look!" He pops what looks like a hundred year old pipe into his mouth that was sitting on the unsteady card table next to the ID's.

"Spencer--,"

"Seriously, it's Sherlock," he says, holding the pipe away from his mouth, giving it an elegant bob.

"Right, Sherlock, we should really try to figure out what's going down here. We found a camera with all sorts of pictures of weapons on them, most of them apparently used," I squeak. Spencer nods me on, a serious contemplating look stamped across his face. "And we found a bunch of ID's…"

"And wallets," he adds.

"Right, and wallets - wait, what?" Spencer holds up a few that he found a nearby shelf. "Okay…And wallets. This just gets worse and worse…"

"Here's a purse."

"Ooh, it's Coach!"

Spencer swings it upwards before I can grab it out of his hand. "Settle down, there, teenage girl kid. Let's stay on track here."

"Right," I agree, shaking my head to clear thoughts of myself with that purse in the mall…the light shining in on me…everyone ogling and pointing…Uh, right. "So…Weapons, ID's, empty wallets, stolen purses…"

"I'm seeing a pattern," Spencer says, nodding. He sticks the pipe back into his mouth, and rubs his chin as he goes through the ID's. "They all look like tourists."

"Oh my God, Spencer…Spencer? Spence!" Urgh. "Sherlock?"

"Yo?"

"This is…over here…whoa…"

"What?" asks Spencer, turning around, stopping suddenly when he sees what I'm looking at. "Is that…is that a picture of Wozza?"

"Uh huh," I nod shakily. I carefully blow the dust off the glass pane of the picture, revealing what looks like a younger version of that Wozza guy, a rifle in his hand, standing in front of this house, holding the trophied head of a red kangaroo…Ew.

"That has to be illegal," Spencer says, taking the picture out of my hands. "You sure that's Wozza? It kind of looks like him, maybe a few years ago, minus a few pounds." Spencer scratches his head, then pretends to take a puff of the empty pipe. After he coughs up quite a bit of dust, he tells me in a raspy voice, "Wozza wouldn't do something like that, and he wouldn't own a place like this, you know."

"It definitely looks like him," I say, taking the picture again. "And if he's the one who owns this place…the weapons, and the stolen wallets…Oh, God, he's supposed to be looking for us, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, if he hasn't found us, what if he's found Sam or Freddie?" I ask, unable to keep down my hysteria.

"Yeah…?"

"Come on, Sherlock! This guy obviously isn't someone we can trust! What if he's found Sam and Freddie and…and…"

"Aw, Carls," Spence starts, wrapping his arms around me. "They'll be alright. I can't see Sam letting someone steal anything from her."

"Or worse," I murmur into his shirt. I look up at him in time to catch his involuntary gulp, and his grimace.

"Well, as long as those two work together, and Sam doesn't peeve Freddie off to the point of insanity, I'd say they'll be alright," he reassures me, though not too convinced himself. "Nevel and Gibby…I'm not too sure."

I wiggle out of his arms, and look up at him. "I hope somebody cuts Nevel's throat."

"Whoa."

"Sorry," I mutter. "A bit too graphic."

Spencer suddenly looks very concerned. He takes an agitated puff on his pipe, forgetting about the dust. After another minute of a coughing fit, and scoops me up in his arms, and bounds down the stair two at a time. He immediately drops me to the floor, "Oof - Spencer!" and starts searching manically around the main room.

"Pack the map," he shoots at me as he throws open a few cupboards, annoyed with the predictable contents. He empties the cupboards of spices and silverware, grumbling each time he doesn't make his find.

"Wh-what are you looking for?" I ask, still a little shaken, worried for my friends.

"The loot," Spencer explains plainly.

"Loot?"

He crouches down, sticking his head under the sink. "Well, yeah," he calls out to me. "You think this dude just jacks all these tourists and donates the money he steals to charity or something?"

"I'm still not convinced that Wozza is stealing from people."

"I'm still not convinced that it's Wozza." Spencer pulls his head out from under the sink, stabilizing himself against the counter as the blood rushes back quickly.

"That was a picture of him in front of this house…"

"Yeah, well - whoa." He stops suddenly as he's making his way toward me. "Bingo."

"What?"

He smiles at me, clutches his pipe, then steps back again. A loud creek sounds from the floorboard he's on, followed by a thunderous boom from outside. "We have a winner," Spencer croons with a sly grin. He comes down hard on the weak floorboard with his heel, snapping it with first contact. He smiles at me one more time, then stoops down and stick his hand in the hole he created. "Got it!"

"Got what?"

He pulls up a black leather suit case, smiling at me all the while. "The loot!" He opens it up in a hurry, surprised to find it unlocked. There's practically a green glow emitting from the inside as we both peer inside.

"We're gonna be rich!"

"We're gonna be dead if we don't get out of here," I reason. "C'mon, let's go." I help him to his feet, the gather the map.

Spencer fills a few canteens he found in the cupboards with the better-than-nothing-dirty-sink-water. "Right, let's go find our little Sam and Freddo and Gibson, then find the highway, and catch the first flight home." He fastens the strap of the canteens around his shoulder, and clutches the suitcase at his side. He gives one more imaginary puff on the pipe, then says, "Time to rescue the kiddos."

"Right," I agree, picking up something from the corner that caught my eye when I first walked in here.

"Ooh, Carls with a rifle. I wouldn't mess with your friends."

I smirk, "Let's do this thing."

----------------------------------------------

Hey. Sam threw up on my sneakers.

Right, so, on a not so less smelly note, I learned how to cook fish over an open flame, in case you were curious. I also learned how to use red dirt to smother the nauseating smell of what occurred due to being nauseated. …That sounded choppy. Couldn't think of a better not-obscene way to tell you that I had to clean up Sam's puke.

And, shh! She's still asleep, and we like her that way. The way where she is quiet (wow), aside from her faint snores, and the she's not threatening me, or throwing up, or making a general raucous, or how she doesn't have that typical cloud of chaos surrounding her, or the look of a dyer need to be rambunctious that she gets in her eyes if things are still for more than a minute, and that godforsaken mischievous smirk is absent…so all is well.

And boring.

But well.

Right, well, it's raining outside, so I moved everything underneath our nylon tent to keep it dry. Yeah, it's a bit cramped in here, I'll admit. Okay, cramped is an understatement. We'll just say that I've learned to get real cozy with Sam's feet while there's stray pieces of firewood practically shoved up my--

"Holy brass!" Sam suddenly exclaims.

"What?" I ask, startled, sitting up a bit. "You okay?" Her chest bounces up and down as she heaves a few short breaths, her eyes darting nervously around the dimly lit tent. "Sam, are you okay?"

"M'fine, Fredwina," she says, suddenly dismissing her alarmed state, and going back to her usual disinterested nature. "Just had a nightmare, that's all."

"Are you sure you're alright? You've been kind of…well, you were kind of weird when you came home from hunting earlier."

"Home?"

I look pointedly around the sagging tent. "Sad, isn't it." Then I glance back at Sam, who is scooting away from me, still looking a bit sick. "You aren't gonna - you know - again, are you?"

"Naw," she slurs. "I'm just a bit claustrophobic in here. It's sorta cramped." She wiggles her feet out from underneath my ribs.

"Yeah, I know. But there's not much of an alternative," I say, motioning to the storm outside. I lift myself off the ground a bit, allowing her sneakers to slip out from underneath me. We both sit up, mirroring each other's exhaustion as we stare blankly into the pathetic fire. "You sure you're alright?" I ask after a few minutes of silence. Silent Sam would concern anyone, you know?

"I'm fine, Benson! How many times do I need to tell you?"

"You're not sick or anything?"

"No," she breathes, exasperated. "I just…I mean…Since when does a girl need an excuse to puke?"

"See, now that statement concerns me."

Sam smiles at this, barely, then goes back to fire gazing. Then she randomly perks up and shakes her head, as if physically clearing something out of her mind. After she done looking a bit like a dog with wet ears, she looks over at me expectantly, informing me that, "This is boring."

"Well, what do you suggest we do?"

"I dunno, make out?"

Wait, what? "Wait, what?"

"Heh, that was a joke," Sam says, her words still a bit slurred as she hasn't completely woken up. "A badly placed joke. Sorry…eh…Freddo, do you, whoa, see…the stars too." Oh, she's heat disoriented.

"Wait, you really want to make out with me?" I ask, my expression torn between amusement and being appalled.

"Ew, no, it's the heat getting to me, that's all. It was a joke, a bad one, and I'm sorry. Ew."

"Okay, good," I say. "Glad that's settled."

Sam looks like she's gonna be sick again, then she does that wet dog head shake thing again. When she's sitting still again, and her eyes aren't involuntarily rolling back into her head, she let's out a reluctant chuckle. "Heh, that reminds me of my first date with Pete."

"How?"

"Well," Sam starts, straightening up. "I asked him where we were going, and what we were going to do, and he said, 'I dunno, make out?'."

"Ah."

"Yeah, I guess I'm just thinking about him for some reason. Well, probably because in the dream I just had he got brutally mutilated by a guy wielding a machete along with pretty much everyone else I know."

"Ah."

"Yup…Oh, and if you're curious, you're surprisingly not the type to beg to be spared at the face of death. Who would've guessed?"

"Ah. Hey, Sam, what ever happened to you and Pete anyway?" I ask, keen to stay on that subject, as I can see the teeniest glimmer of hope that I might be able to bring something up that's gonna make Sam _real_ uncomfortable here in a minute if we stay on this topic. And I do love causing this girl discomfort.

"Oh, I thought you knew, or Carly told you, or something."

"Well," I start, sitting up as well. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don't revolve around you and Carly's personal lives."

"Really?" asks Sam, with an obnoxious knowing tone.

Sadly, I don't have much to back up that argument, so take a quick u-turn. "So what happened with you two then? Or do you not want to talk about it?" I ask smugly, knowing the last part is gonna bother her.

"Pssht. Good one, Benson. I can talk about it. No guy can faze me like that," she spits out quickly. "He…er, I broke up with him."

"Yeah right," I say, mainly to egg her on, because I'm bored, and I have nothing better to do than make Sam angry. Luckily, I quite enjoy this pastime.

"Yeah, well, whatever. You're dumb. You have about the experience of a twelve year old when it comes to this kind of thing, so I don't really care what you think. Case closed."

I smirk. "Oh, _I'm_ the one with the experience of a twelve year old? Really? Because I'm almost positive that I heard Pete in the locker room saying that he dumped you because you can't kiss worth a darn." I drop my chin, and raise my eyebrows accusingly. "Sure that you are the one who broke it off?"

"Yes!" Sam is the faintest shade of pink as she pulls at some dead grass stuck in the ground. "You can't believe everything you hear in the locker room," she mumbles, still looking down at the grass she's tugging on. Then she continues in an even smaller voice, "I can to kiss good."

Told you I could make her real uncomfortable. "Yeah, okay," I laugh.

"What do you know?" she asks reproachfully.

"Well, on this certain subject, I'd say that I'd know more than most."

She glares at me, then things click, and she lets out a quiet, "Oh." She throws the wad of dry grass into the fire, and we both watch it as it grows slightly for a moment, then dies back down. "That was, like, a year ago. Doesn't even count."

"Yeah, but who else have you kissed besides me in the past year?" I ask, still with that triumphant air in my voice.

"Pete," she is quick to point out.

"Oh, right," I murmur. "Pete…"

"But he's a douche bag," Sam informs me airily.

"Yeah, he's, er, kind of that, yes." Sam cocks her brow. "I'm not allowed to say that word," I admit. "My mom heard me say it once…Well, let's just say that I got a crash course about that kind of thing afterwards."

"Ah."

"Yeah," I nod. "I probably know more about the functions of the female body than you do."

"Ah. I wouldn't doubt you there."

"Right," I start, keen to stay on topic. "But aside from Pete, who would know how well you kiss better than me?"

"So you do know more about my personal life than you let on."

"Sam," I say sternly, "Let's stay on topic here. Face it, you aren't a good kisser." And then I watch her as she boils up, happy because I am finally going to get some entertainment after the solitude in the hours spent watching her passed out under the tent today.

"Oh, shut up! Like I would even waste a good kiss on you!"

"You didn't put anything into it," I say, smiling.

"Shut up, doof!"

I ignore her. "And I'm pretty sure your eyes were open the whole time."

"Shut…up…" she seethes.

"Fine. We'll just leave it like this, settled."

"What's settled?" she demands.

"That you aren't a good kisser!"

"SHUT UP!" she advises me. And this is sadly what I live for sometimes; the chance to really piss Sam off, and, God forbid, maybe even embarrass her. "My kissing skills are more than satisfactory, thank you very much."

I laugh, unable to stop myself. "Prove it," I mandate smugly.

"I…I…Maybe I will." Sam glances around the tent, looking a bit dizzy, then grimaces when her eyes fall on me.

And what I just automatically commanded of her sinks in. "Oh, wait…uh…"

"I could kiss a rock," she suggests, deliberately not giving the more prominent alternative a single thought.

"No, we don't want to do that to a poor rock." She glares at me, but I cut off her retort by asking, "Do you really want to kiss a rock?"

"No, not really, no."

"Well, then it's settled. You suck at kissing. Case closed."

"Damnit, Benson, I don't even care what you think!"

"Really?" I ask skeptically. "Because to me this just sounds like something I'm better than you at."

"You are NOT!"

"Really?"

"Stop using skepticism on me, you nub!" She glares at me, then at the fire, then back at me, then she chucks a rock, then glares a bit more, then says, "Let's get this gay shit over with."

"Wha--Really?" I ask, trying not to sound too surprised. And failing.

"Yes," she breathes reluctantly through clenched teeth. "And then you'll never be allowed to say or think, for one second, that I am not a good kisser." After stating them, Sam seems a bit more reassured about her motives. She doesn't really have to lean in to create a closeness between us, as cramped as we are in here. I gulp for a moment, sure that my expression must be matching hers. That being distaste.

"You sure?" I manage to ask, though weakly.

She pushes on of my shoulders back, positioning me so that I'm squared to her. "Will you admit that I can kiss better than you and better than any other girl in the entire world, especially the ones that may be cursed enough to find themselves kissing you one day?"

"No."

"Then yes, let's get this over with."

Right. I clear my throat, ready to get down to business. Because that's what this kind of thing is between us -- I mean, look at the fire escape days. It's just business. Wow…now that I think about it, that statement is just a shy step away from friends with benefits--

But I don't have time to ponder this extremely unsettling thought, because Sam finally sucked it up and decided to be the one to make the plunge. Her lips catch my open mouth, and right off the bat she's being all aggressive, trying too hard, kissing too hard. Damn, this girl will seriously go lengths to prove me wrong. Damn.

So I try to slow her down a bit, you know. I try to set a rhythm, try to rest my hand on hers. But she recoils at my touch, and grunts into my mouth before pulling away. "Strictly business," she breathes, her breath hot on my face.

"Right - business--,"

"None of this hand holding nonsense."

"Right - are we done--,"

But before I can formulate a question, she dips in again, and picks things up where they were. And I decide in this instant that I'm not going to put anything into this. We'll see how good at kissing she is when she's got a limp noodle to work with. Right, so now that she's cooled down a bit, and she isn't being so rushed, she's kind of…well, this is kind of…it's, you know, not _that_ bad.

Shit, it's really good. Damn it. Shit. This is bad. You know this is bad, because I don't swear for nothing. She's still kind of aggressive at this point. I mean, it _is _Sam after all. But at the same time, she's real gentle, and careful about everything, like right now, running her tongue along my bottom row of teeth. I gulp down the urge to react, and lean as far away from her as I can while still offering my mouth. She seems a bit frustrated, and she grunts again, but then nips my lower lip just the tiniest bit…And when she feels me shudder, and I can't help but bring my hands to her face, and scoot in, and start kissing her back, I find that I am kissing a sure smirk.

And then the smirk pulls away, but not before teasing me with the slightest of kisses on the corner of my mouth. Sam allows herself a few deep breaths, then regains her composure, and gives me an arrogant look. "There, convinced?"

I'm a bit ashamed to say that I still haven't recovered, and I'm still half leaning in, and my mouth is still hanging open. But though I'm not capable of physically letting her know that she didn't win this time, I am able to say weakly, "You taste like ham." And then I'm backtracking quickly, because Sam knows as well as I that this is probably the single most used line said by me in fanfictions about the two of us. Oh, you people are real sick, by the way. Me and Sam? Pfft.

"Please, who hasn't written _that_ one before? Surely you've got something better."

"That…that was…uh…" Crapolla. "Uh, you suck at kissing," I manage.

"Right, okay." She scoots to the far side of the tent, just a few inches away, and thrusts her feet into me once again. "That's not what your reaction told me."

"Whatever," I huff, feeding a stick to the dying fire.

"Fine, I don't care if you admit it or not. I'm okay with just knowing that you know you're wrong."

"Whatever."

She crosses her arms and leans back, shaking her head at me. "And to think I wouldn't tell you that I found a dead body, just so you wouldn't get scared…Wait - whoops."

"Dead…body?" And now suddenly my wonderings aren't gearing so much toward where in the hell did Sam learn to kiss as they are this newly gained and unsettling information.

-------------------------------------

After eight tries, a singed eyebrow, and only one third degree burn I've got a fire going, no thanks to bundled panties (Nevel). And now we're sittin' here in this little cave thingy, 'cause it's raining like bejesus outside, and we're all huddled up close to this little fire. I used the cash in Nevel's wallet to burn because everything outside is soaking wet…but don't tell him.

"So…"

"So," he nods.

"You haven't talked for a few minutes. And with how nonstop you jabber usually is, I just thought I'd make sure you weren't dead."

Nevel smiles, popping a stick of stringy cheese in his mouth. Oh, I stole everything out of Boomer's fridge. I mean, Boomer's cool, and he's livin' the dream and all, but nobody makes Gibby's friends swat flies…er, even just my acquaintances, really. Or just random gay dudes I find myself stuck with who talk more about their haircut and their mother than they breathe, or call you a dimwit, which is often.

"So…" Nevel starts.

"Yup."

"Right."

"Yup."

We're silent for awhile, listening to the rain pitter patter, and the fire crackle, and the cheese digest. Then Nevel breaks my cheese digestion concentration with, "So, Gibby. This is interesting."

"Yup."

"Kind of romantic, you know?"

"NO!" I yell, whipping my shirt back on in a flash of bright colors and Hawaiian flowers.

"No, I…no…I mean, like, the rain, and the dimly lit cave, and the fire. It's just…not for US….as a generalization. Like, if we could put somebody else in this situation, like Brangelina, or Ron and Hermione--,"

"What the hells is a Hermione?"

"Have you no knowledge of ships? Right, but back on topic, for Shay and the smiley Benson fellow she has a thing for. Not you and me!"

"Carly and Freddie? Really? Not gonna happen."

"Says who? They have their moments!"

"Not as many moments as, say, I dunno, _Sam _and Freddie." I shrug dismissively, popping some cheese into my mouth.

"Are you kidding me? All they ever do is fight!"

"Yeah, but it's _hot_." Ew, did I just say that? It, er, kinda fell out of my mouth, like word vomit! (Mean Girls reference…man, Lindsay Lohan actually _is _hot). "Better than two friends who just get along perfectly, and don't have any denial, or steamy, under the surface, hot passion!"

"Ah hah, the typical argument against Creddie," Nevel says, tutting lightly.

"Wait, what? _Creddie_?" Sounds like a dog food.

"Hmm." Nevel shakes his head. "I have no idea what that is. It just kind of came out of my mouth."

"Word vomit?" I ask sympathetically.

"Yeah, as though someone wrote the dialogue for me or something."

"Actually, yeah, me too." I just don't use the words _steamy_ and _hot_ when talking about Freddie. I just don't.

"Weird."

"So weird."

"At any rate, we shall see who's is right, and who is a numbskull by the end of our cleverly written, light hearted sitcom, my dear Gibby. And I will have you know, aside from Jacob and Bella, I have never been wrong about a ship. I shan't be wrong this time."

"A ship? Wha--,"

"Shh, shush, sh! Do you hear that?" Nevel asks, suddenly very alert. Almost as alert as I am confused. I mean _ship_? What the hells?

"Hear what?" I ask weakly.

"Voices? No…uh…" Nevel cups his hand around his ear. "There's a distinct _thud thud thudity thud thud." _

"Right…Well, go check it out."

"You go check it out!"

I lay back against the cave floor, and cloud of stringy cheese wrappers flying up around me. "Mama's boy," is all I have to say. And I am pleased that in the short time I've really known this fruit, I know just how to get him ticking.

"Am not!"

"Are to."

"Fine! I'll go see."

Heh, fruit. He huffs loudly, deliberately stepping on my foot as he walks by, angry when I don't flinch or appear bothered. I continue on to the Go-Gurt (yum) that I knicked as I watch him cautiously peer out of the cave. "Well…?"

"I'm going, I'm going." He takes an involuntary gulp, then hesitantly steps out into the rain. He squeals and jumps back in when there's a loud bolt of lightening.

"Go, you fruit!"

"I'm going!" He straightens out his tie and vest, then disappears into the night with three angry strides. I eat some fruit snacks as I wait for him to return. Then the fruit snacks are gone, and I've moved on past the Capri Suns, and the leftover beef stroganoff, and the rest of the tapioca. Okay, "Nevel?" No answer. "Neeeveell?" Nothing. "Pappermin!" Zilch. "Fruit kid!" Nada. "MAMA'S BOY?"

There's nothing. Just the sound of the rain, and the shadowy illusion of my last image of Nevel about half an hour ago when we went outside. "Nevel!" I yell again. Then I'm answered by a another loud thunderous flash, making the dark silhouette of the figure in the cave's entrance visible for just a moment.

"Oh, Nevel, you scared me, man," I say, getting to my feet. I stumble toward him through the dark. Then, before I reach him, there's another flash. I drop the beef stick in my hand, and my gut falls to the floor, as I come to the sinking realization that this isn't Nevel.

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**A/N: I wanted to put dead bodies in the pics that Carly/Spence find, but I thought it was too creepy. Okay, cool. We're getting somewheres. Hope this isn't too creepy for your liking, cuz I really need to fill my desire to write a twisted suspense here. Okay, review, for cereal. Or for real. Please. Okay, thank you. Oh and I can't wait to write Carly with a rifle in rescue hero mode. **


	7. Day 3: Dawn

**A/N: Yeah, hey. So sorry about the long break between this and my last update. Seriously. **

**My best friend Mack just found out that she's moving to NYC at the end of the summer. :( Yeah, so I'm just pretty much bummed, cuz that's about a ten hour drive. But, this last week or two of summer we've just been doing all this crazy stuff, and I've been spending just pretty much every second with her since we found out, so I haven't been the updating-est fool lately. Heh, and I totally had to go back through and edit this A/N, cuz it had a few choice words in it. Oops. That's what happens when you spend extensive periods of time with my Mack. She swears like a bloody sailor. It's actually quite impressive, the material she comes up with.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Okay, so whoever came up with the idear to write Carly with a rifle should be thrown in a cage with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and Ronald McDonald on fight night. (Yeah, I said 'idear', and I'm not a cute, portly, elderly, British woman. What ya gonna do? Word to your mother? I already did word to your mother. And she _liked _it!)

"Carly, please! Careful where you're pointing that - YAH!"

"Oh my God, it's loaded!"

"Yeah," I squeak, my fingers gingerly making their way to the top of my head.

"Uh…" Carly drops the gun to her side. "You, uh, you needed a haircut anyway."

I nod and my voice cracks, "Yeah."

"I'll just, umm, wait until, uh…"

"Just put the gun away."

"Fair enough - wait!"

"Dear God, not again."

Carly brings the gun up to her shoulder, taking careful aim at a rock…Yeah, she's my sister and all, but I never said she wasn't insane. And people call _me_ the crazy one in the family.

"Carly, it's just a rock. Your average, friendly, neighborhood rock. Not the kind that take pictures of you, or give out free candy and invite you into their basements, and - well. It's just the friendly kind."

Carly keeps her steady gaze on the rock. "I don't know, Spence. I think there might be something _behind_ the friendly rock."

I hear a bit of rustling from somewhere behind me as I start, "Carls-,"

She turns very suddenly, wild eyed, gun pointed…in my direction. I duck as she fires at the bushes behind me. "CARLS!"

"There's something in there!" she starts, pointing frantically. A small rabbity-looking mouse/kangaroo (I failed natural classifications) hippity-hops out from under the brush. "Is that a bunny or a gopher?"

"Well, whatever this small fuzzy creature is, you just shot at me for nothing!"

"Sorry, I guess I'm a bit strung up…maybe a bit trigger happy."

"Now that statement concerns me."

She sighs. "Okay, sorry, let's just get going." She shoulders the gun, and checks the map again. "This way."

"Where are we even going?" I ask, dragging my feet.

"Stand up, and stop acting like a five year old."

"But _Carls_…" She ignores me, and takes a sudden turn into the opening of a wooded area. "Well, this seems like a safe place to be considering the current situation. Dark, wet, gloomy, creepy trees, substantially ominous! Good pick, Carls."

"Well, we've been up and down the plains, and we haven't found any sign of the others or that highway or anything. And they would have enough sense to find a wooded area for shelter at least, right?"

"I guess. Well, Freddie would." We continue walking through the trees. I kick a rock. She sighs. Man, this is boring. I thought that surviving in the outback would be, like, an adventure. At least I've got a suit case full of cash to comfort me. "What are you going to do with your share of the money?"

Carly looks down at her feet to hide her bright smile. "Spencer, you know that we should probably put that into savings. I mean, no offense, but your art isn't going to support us forever, and Dad could use some help-,"

"I'm going to buy a gumball machine," I say, interrupting Carly's annoying, habitual sense of reason.

"I'm going to go on the shopping spree of my life!" she finally explodes.

I skip a little, turning my body so that I'm facing her. I gallop along beside her as I start, "And I'm going to get a giant portable pool, and we're gonna put it in our living room, and fill it with pudding!"

"Or jello!"

"Or both!" The thought of all of the magical things that I could do with this suitcase-o-cash has pretty much pushed the fact that we are racing to find our little kiddo friends before some creepo does, with unspoken fears that he's actually going to find us along the way out of my mind. "I want to buy a little person," I quietly confide in Carls.

"A little person?" she asks, quickening her step to keep up with my galloping. "Can you do that?"

"I don't know! But I'm going to look on Z-Bay, because you can buy almost anything there!"

"You think I could get a life-size cardboard cutout of Johnny Depp?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Yay!" she squeals. She begins skipping to keep an easier pace with me. "What are you going to do with your little person?"

"Probably buy him a baby tuxedo and teach him French, or sculpt him, or teach him to make prank calls, or us him to crawl under the couch and get the remote when we lose it. The works." I shrug. "What are you going to do with a life-size cardboard cutout of Johnny Depp?"

"Look at it," she says, raising her eyebrows as if this should be obvious. Images of a candlelit shrine fill my head for a moment…

"Creepy."

"Hey, you're the one who wants a little person."

"I think I'm going to use the money to fund lion-taming school too."

Carly stops skipping. "Wait, you wanna be a lion tamer?"

"Yeah," I mumble, kicking at the dirt. "I'd be good."

"Right…. Hey, we could get a Peppy Cola fountain in our kitchen!"

"Yeah! Oooh! And we should throw a cheese themed party. Like, we'll all wear cheese heads, and we'll fill our living room with cheese replicas of our furniture, and everybody is gonna draw a name of a cheese out of a hat at the beginning of the party, and that's the cheese sample you get to take home at the end - Oh! I hope I get blue cheese, or maybe asiago…hmm…" Cheddar's good too. Man, this is tough.

"GOTCHA!" I jump, and Carly suddenly has the gun pointed at me again. Or at least at what's behind me. I step aside, quickly getting myself out of the angry teenage girl's line of fire, to see who she has taken aim at in the bushes.

Oh, the cliff hanger! Carly got to leave you hanging once earlier, now it's my turn. Deal with it.

--------------------------------------------

"Seriously, Fredward, that was the last time!"

"And that's what you said the _last _time, if I remember correctly."

"Well, that was a year ago. I don't see anything wrong with restating the agreement."

"Okay, cool. It's whatever, Sam."

"Last time."

"You're only reassuring yourself."

"I mean it, dork!"

I sigh and slow to a walk. "Can we please just concentrate on finding this highway, Sam. You're the one who keeps bringing up the kiss."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Not!"

"Too!"

"Not - do you hear that?"

I hold my breath, listening the faint rustling. Now thoughts of the reason I forced her to leave camp with me (I don't want to say dead body…oh, too late) fill my head, and I hasten, "C'mon." I grab her wrist and pull her along as we start off again through the fog. The moisture that hangs around after a heavy rainfall makes for some heavy humidity. The air is thick and hard to breath, and we're both sweating pretty badly, and Sam's hair is, well, Sam's hair just doesn't do well in humidity.

_Excuse_ me? My hair does FINE in humidity! My hair is the most wonderful, beautiful, amazing hair - most magical hair of all time. You just be happy to be in its presence. My hair's glow does your moppy little wad of brown some good, you know.

Hello, peeps. That above was a simple change of POV, as the writer accidentally started of with the wrong POV (again), and was too lazy to use the backspace button. Hope you weren't too thoroughly confused. This is Sam, by the way. You get that? Sam…as in the one who isn't a dorkwad, and the one who can smell ham from a mile away, and the one with magical hair. That Sam.

So me and Freddo are trekking through the woods right now. I accidentally let it slip last night that there was, you know, a body in the woods (seriously, if I wanted scary, I could've just taken a picture of Mrs. B with her refining mask on). Yeah, I wasn't exactly, you know, _in my right mind_ the other night. I mean, I'll be the first to admit that Mama doesn't do well when deprived of her Fat Cakes. So mixed being malnourished with heat disorientation and exhaustion, then I might do…_things _that I, uh, normally wouldn't do…or, you know, uh…See, that's why I let it slip about the dead body.

"That was the last time, Fredward!"

He groans lightly, pulling me a bit rougher along as he continues bush whacking. "I understand, okay? Stop bringing it up."

"Do you even know where we're going?" I ask.

"Northeast. I hope."

"Why?" I ask, trying and failing, again, to rip my wrist out of his grasp.

"Wozza said there's a highway - holy chizz!"

"GOTCHA!" Some chick with a gun yells as we emerge from the brush into a clearing. Hey, wait, I definitely I know this chick.

"Carly?" I ask.

She lowers the gun, just a bit, and cocks her head. "Sam!" She drops the rifle, on Spencer's foot, who lets out a howl, and flings her arms around me.

"Wow, Carls, I almost didn't recognize you under all the dirt and ripped clothing." I pat her back awkwardly as she continues to squeeze me tighter.

"I thought…I thought…" she starts blubbering.

"Looks like they're okay, Carls," Spencer says through clenched teeth. I look over Carly's shoulder and see that he is rubbing his foot and holding back tears. "Now lets get a move on."

"Where to?" Freddie asks.

"Uh…"

"We were headed to the highway, wherever that is," Freddie explains wearily.

"Sounds like a plan! Um…Carly?"

"Just a minute!" she calls, still clinging to me with a death grip.

"Carls, I'm alive. It's all good. But I won't be for long, 'CAUSE I CAN'T BREATH!"

She quickly retracts her hands. "Sorry."

Freddieo kicks at the ground once, and rocks back and forth with his hands behind his back, looking sheepish, and that's being nice. "Uh, so, uh, were you scared for me?"

Carly smiles at him, then pats his head. "Glad you're alright too." She trots ahead of us to catch up with Spence, who's already started toward where he thinks this magical highway might be. I smile and stick my tongue out at the dork, who scowls, and we run to catch up.

"Wait," Spencer suddenly starts after a few minutes of bushwhacking. He throws his hands out, catching all three of us in his arm span. "What about Gibby?"

"What about him?" I ask, dodging around Spence and continuing on.

Freddie grabs my hood and pulls me back. "Naw, he's right. We can't just leave Gibby out here to fend for himself."

"Gah…The boy has lived through one of my Cosmic Wedgies! I think he can handle a little Australian wilderness, for cryin' out loud!"

Carly sighs and shakes her head. "Sorry, Sam, but I agree with the guys." She looks around for a moment. "Uh, where exactly would Gibby be?"

"A cave!"

Freddie sighs. "What makes you think of a cave, Spence?"

"Well," Spencer starts, "He kind of looks like a teddy bear, right?"

I shrug. "Eh, a bean, I'd say."

"Well, as we have no other leads, the fact that Gibby looks a bit like a bear is going to have to be evidence enough," Freddie says, ignoring me. "Let's go check out that cliff face a few miles back."

"Ugh…You people and your _walking_, and _rescuing_," I grumble as we start backtracking. We're quiet for a few more minutes, all pretty exhausted, and STARVING! Well, I'm starving. Oh, right, children in Africa are starving, not me. I forgot. …I wish I were in Africa. I mean, I could totally eat Pumba right now. Or maybe a rhino. Mmm…rhino.

Carly suddenly grabs onto my sleeve, forcing me into step with her, letting the little boys ahead. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?" I whisper back.

"There's something really suspicious going on here." Uh oh. Busted. Damn it! How did she figure it out? It's not like we were shooting each other sexy looks, or twitching in anticipation (not that I anticipate anything), or even walking next to each other! I haven't even said a word to Freddie since we found Carls and Spence! Wait…that's it. I cooled it with the insults (unintentional). That's how she figured out that there's something to be suspicious about us…which there's not… 'cause I was just proving dorkboy wrong earlier, which is what I do.

"Look, Carls, it didn't mean anything. We were, well, heat disoriented, and hungry, and he was doubting my abilities! I couldn't just let him sit there with that stupid triumphant smile. It _kills_ me when Fredmund wins-,"

"What are you even talking about?"

"Uh…what are you talking about?"

She cocks her eyebrow. "Well, I was going to tell you about this freaky shack we found, and the case full of cash under the floorboards, and the guns and knives, but I'm a little more interested in what apparently 'didn't mean anything' between you and Freddie…"

Double uh oh. "Um…" Okay, time to backpedal. "Me and _Freddie_? Oh, heh, oops. I didn't mean to say _Freddie_. I meant to say…uh…Spencer! Yeah, Spencer."

He whips around. "Yah?"

"Oh, nothing, dude." Please, let it be nothing. Just let it go, Carls. _Please_! "So, about that cash…"

"Wait, you and my brother did _what_?"

"What?" Spencer asks.

"Uh…we…shared…a pop tart." That sounds more kinky than I intended. Sorry. The writer of this story can't help the innuendos sometimes.

Spencer scratches his head, as Carly starts, "It didn't sound like you were talking about a pop tart, Sam."

"Oh!" Freddie whips around, wide eyed.

"Glad you finally caught on there, dork." Then I try to give him my best _I could use some help_ look.

"She's just a little woozy from the heat, and the lack of food," Freddie explains.

Carly gives a suspicious, "Uh huh."

"Yeah," Fredhead continues. "I mean, you know how Sam can get when she goes a few days without Fat Cakes _and _ham!"

"You make a good argument, yeah," Carly nods.

"Wait! What was that about me and Sam and a pop tart and being woozy?"

"Uh…nothing, Spence."

He scratches his head. "Am I imagining stuff…is that a pink bunny!?!"

"See, Carly," Freddie starts again. "We're all just saying stuff that doesn't make any sense, and stuff that," he turns to me and spits out, "_we shouldn't say_!" Carly still looks a bit suspicious, but she's too exhausted and pissed off about our current situation to really care. Freddie pulls me back a little as we continue on (I swear, how many people are going to pull on me today?) "Is it really that hard for you to keep your big trap shut?" he whisper yells at me as Carly sooths Spencer, who swears there's a pink bunny following us.

"Hey, cool it, dork. She was talking about something, and I thought she was talking about us, and yada yada, my bad, okay, we get it, can we move on now?"

He still isn't satisfied. "Look, Sam, you said yourself that was a one time thing, so don't go around yapping about it!"

"MY BAD, okay?"

He sighs and gives me a weary look. "I'm just saying, Sam. I don't want that moment of weakness to be brought up more than it has to - oof!"

"…"

Spencer's the first to comment on the sudden dork-free change in our surroundings. "Did Freddie just get pulled into the bushes by a large man's arm?"

"…"

"I think so…" Carly confirms faintly, wide eyed.

"Right, well, Carly? What was that you were saying about a load of cash you and Spence found?"

"Oh!" Spencer holds up a case in his hands. "This is Susan."

"You named a case of money?" He nods sheepishly. I laugh, "Spencer, that's only gonna make it harder to spend-,"

"GUYS! FREDDIE JUST GOT KDINAPPED!"

"Ah, yeesh, _okay_," I start, covering my ears. "Jeeze, Carls. No need to use the shrill voice."

"FREDDIE? _FREDDIE?" _

Spencer scratches his head, again. "Are you _sure…_ Or is this just another figment of my imagina - OW! Sam! You pinched me!"

I shrug. "Guess it's real, then." I smirk as I watch Spencer rub his arm for a moment, then I turn to Carls, who's all frantic and searching through the nearby bushes, waving the gun around like it's a toy, and then I drop the bomb. "Uh, so… Hey, this reminds me of this one time, when I found a body in the forest."

"What?"

"Yesterday. In this forest, to be more exact."

"_What_?"

"And so I was thinking, just a moment ago, 'hey, maybe the dude who killed dead dude just took Freddie' or something like that. My thought process is a little slow with no ham and all-,"

"Oh my God! Spencer! She found a body, and we found all that stuff in that creepy shack! I'm pretty sure that's all the evidence we need to gather that Freddie's in serious danger!"

I gingerly let my hands down from my ears. "Jeeze, Carly, with the shrillness again."

"Sam, this is serious!"

"Your mom's serious."

"Spencer! That's enough with the cheap sarcasm. Sam! Stop looking indifferent and like you don't care that Freddie's in danger!"

"I can't help it! That's just my expression."

Carly grabs me by the sleeve, and Spence too, then pulls us into the brush where Freddie disappeared a moment ago. "We're coming Freddie!"

"Oh, great. Yeah. Let the creepy guy know that we're walking right into his trap. Good one."

"Sam, it's not a - AHH!"

"Ow…" Suddenly everything is dark, and I'm struggling to choke air back into my lungs, and Spencer is crushing my legs. "Spencer, dude."

"Stop, ow, you're kicking me!"

"Oh my God," Carly starts, looking up at the circular opening in the ground, which is now about ten feet above our heads. "Oh no! The gun fell off up there!"

"Told'ya it's a trap," I mumble, rubbing my back.

Then I hear Freddie's muffled yell, "Guys, it's a trap! Oof! Ow!"

"Yeah, okay Fredlumps! We get the concept!"

"Wait," Spence says. "What was that distinct 'oof' and 'ow' all about?"

"Sounds like a sucker punch to the gut and a backhand."

Carly says, "Wow, Sam, you watch way to much MMA. And Freddie! Don't worry Freddie! We're coming!" She starts to pull herself up the dirt wall. Then the root she's using snaps, and she falls back on Spence. "Freddie?"

"Don't worry!" this unfamiliar raspy voice calls down to us. "You guys are gonna join your little buddy here real soon."

Carly gasps. Spencer gulps. I smirk. "Heh, Freddo! He just called you 'little buddy'!" Freddie answers with a pained grumble, and a moan. Carly gasps again, and Spencer starts searching frantically around the dirt walls for a way out. Heh. _Little buddy_. Heh heh.

--------------------------------------------

Okay, hello. Oh, drat! Is it even worth introductions in the present time? I am tied to a friggin tree! How is that for introductions?

Oh dear. I used foul language. My deepest and most sincere apologies, friends. 'Friggin' is a word that I dare not repeat in hopes that I will remain sounding proper and cultivated all my life.

Holy friggin shite! Is that a _worm_?

I hate scary, creepy men who grab you and rough you up and bind you to a tree and tell you they are coming right back. (That is not to be taken as an innuendo of any sort. The writer apologizes).

So, if you want the update, there is currently a worm climbing up the godforsaken rotting tree trunk (that I'm so unfortunately tied to) toward me. Oh, this is so like twitter with my updates and such. Tehe.

Oh dear God, this worm is moving at a remarkable speed, for a worm that is, toward my left elbow. AHHHH! Uh, "AHHH! Help me! MOTHER! Mother, help me! Franz. Francis! Anyone… Gibby! GIBBY! Please, Gibby! I'll never refer to you as a chubby dimwit with a minuscule brain again! I promise…Gibby…Gibby…"

"Ah, quit your cryin', twit!"

I jump, whipping around to look over my shoulder at the odd fellows emerging from the brush surrounding my tree of captivity. "_Boomer_?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me." He looks down on me with a distasteful look, then shouts over his shoulder, "Brodi! You got a knife?"

"Whoa, wait. Hold on a second, please. Uh…if you could not stalk toward me with a field knife, that would be stupendous - WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I tremble, and struggle, and kick, and flail, and commit just about every other action I can think of as the Brodi fellow approaches me, brandishing the knife. "You won't get away with this!"

"What?"

"You heard me! Gibby will come to my rescue!" And it is just as painful for me to admit that I'm relying on the dimwit as it is painful for you to read.

Boomer sighs, and rubs his eyes, looking exhausted. "Just take care of him already, Brodi!"

Brodi grunts and nods, then turns to me.

"NOOO! STOP! I order you to halt, you inbred circus freak! You don't know who you're messing with - whoa, I'm free," I outwardly observe as the binding ropes slide off me onto the dry ground. "You…you…"

"Yeah," Boomer confirms. "We're the rescue crew, mate. As annoying as you may be, I s'pose ya'aren't bad enough to let the killer git to yer."

"Oh… Right, well, when I said _inbred circus freak_ I mean to say _lovely man_."

"Right. Well, let's go find your Gibby."

"Wait, you're going to help me?"

"Uh…no, not really, no." Boomer pulls me roughly to my feet, dusting off my shoulders. "We're going to send you away to an undecided location, and keep the Gibby for our circus."

"You can't have him!"

"Says who?"

…Who? Uh, good question. "His best dressed, and most proper and cultivated friend."

"Ah hah. Welp, finders keepers. May the best bloke win. Have luck, mate." And with that, Boomer and Brodi disapear back into the forest.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds like the circus fellows just threw down a challenge, the stakes being my Gibby. "Yeah, okay! Bring it on, Boomer! Or should I say DOOMER? Like…you know… Like, you're doomed when it comes to winning this competition. Or BLOOMER! Hah, yeah! Bloomer! Like a flower! Which is NOT manly, and you're-,"

Okay, they've been out of ear shot this whole time. Whatever. I'm used to that.

Now, I need to find Gibby before the scary circus folk do, whom you should have gathered by have more to them than meets the eye, and have the potential to be unlikely heroes, as they just saved my rear end from sure death. But that doesn't mean that I can't be surly with them, as I am the character, and I do not obtain the third party information that you yourself do.

Alas! Onward! The hunt for Gibby is officially at foot, dear friends. And the plot thickens tenfold. Hmm…my plot, at least. I wonder where the iCarly gang is. Hmm. I hope they're all dead.

Alas! Onward!

* * *

**A/N: So you get what happend to Nevel, right? He got captured, and the nameless bad guy/possibly Wozza guy tied him up and was gonna come back to him...But, you know, this all might be a big misleading Nevel scam. In fact it is a big misleading Nevel scam. I don't feel bad telling you this, cuz I doubt you care as much about the plot as you do about the Nevel/Gibby intereaction ;) Alright. Cool. Thanks. Reveiw. Peace. **


	8. Day 3: Midday

**A/N: This one is a POV free for all. You'll be able to hear the change in the voice and figure out who's who, I hope. If you don't...well, I fail. Just know that there's no Nevel POV in this one. **  
**Sorry for the long wait for this update, guys. School, basketball, work, excuses, excuses. I'm sorry. I feel real bad, because it's usually my priority to update within a day, but I literally can't. Sorry. **

* * *

SURPRISE! Yeah, surprise, you know… 'Cause it's me, not Spencer. Or Carly. Or whoever was supposed to have this PoV. It's me, you know… Surprise!

Oh, come on. It's Gibby! Can't you tell! Can't you hear my voice! You fruits…

Speaking of fruits, "Hey, guys, glad you decided to join the party! Sorry for referring to you as fruits in my narration."

"GIBBY!"

"Spencer, keep it down!" Carly hisses. "Gibby…wh-what…"

"You're being held hostage, tied to a tree, in a forest, and you STILL aren't wearing a shirt?" Sam asks, as if she's surprised. No one understands me. "I don't understand it, but I respect your consistency. Fredward! FREDWARD!"

"It's no use, Sam. He's out cold."

Sam wiggles as far as the binding ropes will let her toward Freddie's limp form hunched up against the tree, and kicks him square in the gut. He let's out an, "oomph," and Carly's all, "SAM!"

"What?"

"Stop kicking him!"

"I'm just trying to wake him up!" Sam yells, glaring at Carly under the dirt covering her face.

"Yeah, well stop!"

"Oh, shut up, Carls! What do you know?" Sam kicks Freddie again.

"Uh…girls?" Spencer tries.

"I happen to know that if I was unconscious, I wouldn't enjoy occasional kicks to the stomach. And would you just sit up, and start helping us plan a way to get out of this mess, before the freaky dude comes back, and we end up in somebody's soup?" Chicken noodle; best case scenario as far as that goes.

"Man, Carls, get that stick out of your ass!" Sam yells back, all gettin' up in Carly's face.

And Carly's pupils kinda dilate, right? Her expressions changes. It's hungry. It's needy. It's had enough, right? And she suddenly snaps, and bursts out of her ropes, and jumps Sam, and starts ravishing her on the spot. And Sam, still bound tightly in her, uh, bindings, does everything but shove her off. And then-

"Uh, Gibbson? Dude? Dude!"

"Eh…Wh-what?"

"You're, like, watching me. And you're drooling," Sam informs me.

"Oh, right, I was jist…jist… You know…" Erm. "I was just imagining what it would be like if you two would finally stop fighting! Seriously, grow up!"

Carly sighs. "You know what, Sam, he's right. We're just all a little high strung from the heat and the situation. I'm sorry for yelling at you for kicking Freddie."

"It's cool. I'm sorry for commenting on the stick in your ass."

"It's fine, Sam. Buds?"

Sam smiles. "Buds."

And then they make out.

No? Oh, okay.

So Carly and Sam all put their heads together, and start the whole plotting thing they do over again, while me and Spencer just watch, mostly bored and, you know, scared for our lives.

---------------------------------------

So Sam and I put our heads together, and start the whole plotting process over again, while Gibby and Spencer just watch, seemingly bored, but most likely scared for their lives.

"Alright, alright, alright, let's just think here," I start, looking around for any inspiration for a plan.

"Uh…uh…Gibby!"

"Eh?"

"Could you, like, I dunno…"

"Could Sam gnaw through the ropes?" Spencer asks, arching his brow inquisitively.

Sam laughs. "Yeah, okay. What makes you suggest that?"

"Well, you chew jaw breakers like marshmallows," Spencer points out.

"Yeah, but they taste like artificial fruit, not smelly rope-,"

"And it hurts when you bite people's bums. Really, really bad. I'd know first hand," Gibby adds with a scowl.

"That was one time!"

"You ate a squirrel, remember Sam?"

"Yeah, but Carls, that was out of necessity. Besides a squirrel is tender and-,"

A muffled sounds comes from Freddie, "You…chewed through…Mrs. Brigg's tires when…when you didn't have a knife…knife to slash 'em," he adds sleepily.

We all look at him for a moment. Other than the fact that he just talked, he still seems pretty much out cold. "Uh…did he just talk?" Gibby asks.

Spencer kind of laughs. "I guess that his unconscious just wanted a piece of something that's somewhat close to Sam-bashing."

Sam promptly kicks our poor, passed out tech producer again. He let's out a low grunt, and Sam seems pleased.

"Are you pleased now?" I ask.

"Do I seem pleased?" Sam seems pleased as she asks this.

"Whatever…just… How do we escape?"

-----------------------------------------

Er, hey. Uh…yeah, I don't have anything real interesting to say because I'm, you know, unconscious.

Oh, but if you could please tell Sam to stop kicking me, that would be _fantastic_.

-----------------------------------------

So I have this thuper awethome idea to get us outa here, right? Yeah…it mainly involves Gibby, fried chicken grease, and Sam's urgent needs of pleasure. Not as kinky as it sounds. Or maybe it is.

So we rub Gibby down with fried chicken, right? Then Sam isn't gonna be able to help busting out of her ropes, and licking him clean…

Aw, man, the dude's back. The dude in the black mask, ya know. The dude holding us captive. Now my genius plan is gonna have to be put on hold.

But where are we gonna get the chicken grease anyway?

"You better let us outa here, you good for nuthin' sack of dirt bag!" I'll give you a high five if you guess which character said that as the bad guy entered the scene…

If you guessed Sam, you win! HIGH FIVE! And if you didn't, I take the high five back. If you guessed Freddie, you should check yourself into a clinic of sorts. I've been there. They're not so bad.

"Aw, shut up, little girl! I have a job to do."

"Yeah, well, I got an award show to go kick ass at," Sam counters. She struggles violently against her ropes, scowling. "Let us go, buddy boy, or you're gonna regret it!"

The masked man laughs as he settles himself against a nearby tree. He plays with a lighter as he watches Sam for a moment. "Regret what? What's a twelve year old girl gonna do to me?"

"Sixteen!"

"Right…" The man takes a puff of his cheap cigarette, immediately coughing up the black smoke.

"Uh… Could you put that out, sir?" Carly asks tentatively. "Secondhand smoke, you know."

The guy laughs, and takes a deliberate puff, blowing a smoke ring in Carly's face. "Hey, now, dude. That's uncalled for," I inform him.

He just laughs again. "Let's just try to get through this, eh? I mean, you don't wanna be here, and I don't wanna be here, so let's just-,"

"What do you mean you don't wanna be here?" Biggy asks. I mean _Gibby_. Man, every time I type that, it comes out 'Biggy'…anyone else have this problem?

"I didn't choose to take you guys captive," the dude says.

"Uh…what?"

"I was paid by someone you may or may not know."

"Who?" Carls asks.

The dude shrugs, and I can make out his smirk in the hole crudely cut for the mouth of the black mask. "I can't tell you that much."

"TELL US, dammit! Or I swear when I get outa here, I'ma hunt you down, and get swingy with my butter sock!"

"…Yeah, I think we're gonna get rid of the blonde aggressive one first."

-----------------------------------

"Oh, bring it on, masked murderer man!"

"Sam," Carls whispers, elbowing me in the ribs. "Now how safe does that sentence sound?"

I don't really care, you know, I could take this nub. But right as I'm about to challenge the dude with a rifle slung over his shoulder again, Freddieo all starts movin' around, and mumblin' and stuff. Or 'coming to' or whatever.

"Wh-wh…where…" He sits up and rubs his head. "Am I dead?" He looks around all shifty like for a moment before his eyes finally land on me. Then the color drains form his face and he looks like he's gonna be sick. "Ah, no! Sam's here! I went to hell!"

"You didn't die, you doof! You just got knocked out like a little pansy's'all."

"Sam," Carly warns. "Are you okay, Freddie?"

"M'fine, Carly, thanks. My head hurts a bit though… And my ribs feel like someone has been kicking them continuously for the last hour…"

Heh. Score.

Carly shoots me a looks, then turns back to Fredjunior. "You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, Carls, I just-,"

There's a loud buzzing sound, and the dude holding us hostage all pulls out his phone, glances at the screen once, then smiles over at me. "Welp, time to do what I get paid to do. You, the short, kinda cute, aggressive blonde chick. You're comin' with me."

"Wait," Gibby starts, "What'd'ya get paid to do?"

Carly pretty much cuts him off, getting all shrill again. "NO! Don't - Get away from her! Don't take one more step! I'm warning you!"

I bite his finger when he reaches down to cut me loose from of the tree I'm tied to. He tastes a little bit like beef sticks.

"Wait, where are you taking her?" Spencer asks. I hope it's somewhere with beef sticks. "You aren't gonna, like, _you know_? Right? 'Cause you can't!" He's close to hysterics now. "You can't do that! She's definitely under aged - which you most likely don't care about, because you're probably going to, er, have to kill us all soon anyhow - but just know that if you do anything to her, you're a sick-o, and I'm going to have to, er, cause you physical pain… And, uh, hit you, and stuff."

Aw, Spence…

"And, seriously, just tell yourself 'she's not eighteen, she's not eighteen, she's not eighteen', like I do, before you make any rash decision," Spencer continues. "She's like a tempting baby muffin, right out of the oven, but that's just it, she's a baby, so you need to refrain from doing anything that you wouldn't do in front of your grandma. Think of your grandma when you take her. It works for me, and-,"

"Spencer?" Freddo is the first to find the ability to spit up words in this situation.

He's finally settling down, shaking his hair around like a wet dog. "Uh, please tell me I just hit my head, and I only _think _I said some stuff about a muffin and the wonderful age of eighteen that I didn't really say."

"You just hit your head, and you only think you said some stuff about a muffin, and how smoking hot Sam is when she's not causing you physical pain, and the wonderful age of eighteen-,"

"GIBBY!" Carly yells, as I throw up in my mouth.

"Is this…is this real life?" Spence asks.

Freddie nods, concerned. "Yeah, man, it is."

"Aw, butter," Spencer mumbles. He then whistles and looks everywhere but at me. Hmm…maybe later I'll tell him that _maybe_ as long as it's on my eighteenth b-day party, which must be a surprise, and location must be a giant pool filled with pudding. …Oh! And I wanna get paid. Cash and fried chicken. Don't judge me.

-----------------------------

Alright, hey, I'm back, because I regained consciousness. Yay… Not really. I actually pretty much wish I was unconscious right now, then I could refrain from this strange desire to find means of saving Sam at the moment, and just let her get, you know, …k-killed or whatever, and then go on living my life, hopefully not getting killed off myself by a masked murderer, but mostly Sam free. In other words, happy.

But, I dunno, must be the gentlemen in me.

So the man finally gets sick of Sam biting and licking his hand every time he tries to help her up, and, much to Carly's shrill disapproval, grabs Sam by the hair and yanks her up. They're both stumbling backward from the momentum, and I see a golden opportunity. So I kick my foot out.

And low and behold, physics kicks in (pun intended…I hang with Spence too much), and the masked man trips and falls to the ground. A glare flashes briefly in my eyes as the knife he had pressed to Sam's throat falls to the ground next to my feet.

While Sam struggles against the man trying to detain her on the ground, and Carly screams and struggles against the tree, and Gibby stares at his belly button, and Spencer stares at Gibby's belly button then continues hitting his head against his tree, mumbling about letting things slip, I grab the knife with my feet, and scoot it back so I can pick it up with my hands tied behind my back.

A minute and a bleeding thumb later, I've cut myself out of my ropes, and I bounding toward, then form tackling, the man restraining Sam on the ground.

I roll off him quickly, pulling Sam to her feet. I grab the knife on the ground before his dazed eyes find it. He stands up to, and right away I have the knife to his neck. "The game's up," I seethe.

"Man," Gibby starts from behind me. "Freddie gets the smarts, the girls, the cool one-liners, _and _the boyishly cute half grin!"

The man raises his hands slowly, glancing around at all of us, then sets his glare on me. "Take off the mask," I order. "Take it off." I don't really know how to run this kind of thing, but I'm suddenly pressing the blade a bit harder into his bare neck. Instincts, I suppose. Or over-exposure to Sam, more than likely.

He reluctantly takes off the mask, and there's a loud gasp from either Carly or Sam…no, too high pitched to be Sam. From either Carly or Spencer. I look back at them, then back to the man in front of me, and I gasp too.

"Francis?" Carly is the first to ask.

"Like, from the plane Francis?" Spencer chimes. "Wait… How are you gonna kill us? You faint at the sight of blood!"

"Naw, I don't, you dumbass. That whole thing was staged! The bandicoot was an untamed, angry, aggressive bandicoot."

"You mean it wasn't house broken?"

"You mean it was similar to Sam?"

"So we knew all along it was going to bite one of you," Francis continues.

"Wait…" Carly makes a few loose connections, her thought process apparent on her features as she thinks things through. "So Wozza _was_ in on this!"

As if on que, or as if we aren't real people, and this is just a story, and the writer can make whomever she please appear whenever she finds convenient, Wozza comes trudging into the clearing, bellowing something like, "Francis, gal damn it! You should have at least to of em' little twits dead and gone by now!" Then he sees me, and my knife, pressed to his partner's throat.

All in one motion, Wozza's reaching into the inside of his worn leather jacket, and he's lunging toward the only other untied captive in the clearing.

He's got a hand gun pointed to Sam's head as he orders in a sinister tone, "Drop the knife, kiddy." I gulp, but keep my steady grip on the weapon. "Drop it!" I look to Carly, who is too petrified to say anything, and Gibby is still looking at his belly button, Spencer nods me on. "I'm warning you, buddy boy, or your little girlfriend here's gonna kark it real soon like!" Wozza presses the gun a bit rougher into the underside of Sam's jaw.

"Now why in the hell do all the creepy dudes holding people hostage assume that the chick is dating the kid who's being negotiated with? Honestly! So cliché…" Sam informs us, crossing her arms.

I drop the knife, and Francis picks it up then scrambles over the Wozza's side. "Righto, now take a step back, good, and sit you're little rut down there, okay." He starts backing away slowly, telling us all to, "Stay put now, if you knows what's good for you'se", accentuating every word with a jab of the handgun into the nape of Sam's neck.

Sam is not amused. Or frightened, for that matter. "Can't you just point the gun at the side of my head, like a normal creep?"

"Man, she's annoying," Francis says to Wozza.

"You have no idea," I add. Then I remember the situation we're. "Let her go!"

Carly seems to have found her voice again, "Yeah, seriously, this is so uncool!" Gibby adds a, "Yeah!" to the cause, and Spencer is still too embarrassed to even look at Sam.

They ignore us, and continue dragging a kicking Sam out of the clearing. Aw, man, I always hoped I would never find myself in a situation where there are two dudes hired to kill us, dragging Sam away, and I just so happen to be the only one in the group untied, so it falls on my to risk my life and go into rescue mode. Man…

"Let her go, or else!" I yell again, this time rising to my feet, and taking a few daring strides toward the men, and Sam, who's frowning at me.

"The one-liners, Benson, we could do without."

"I am _trying _to save you, Puckett…"

"And I am _trying _not to laugh at your attempt, Benson…"

Right, so how does one take down two full grown men with a handgun and a knife in order to save that one's obnoxious kinda/sorta-we kissed a few times-friend?

"Let her go!" Someone else is yelling. An oddly familiar voice, at that. Someone who sounds like my grandmother, but looks more like a twelve year old boy.

"Nice of you to join the party, Pappermin," Sam spits out as a sour welcome. Wozza tightens his massive forearm around her shoulders, and presses the gun into the back of her head this time. And I can't help the damned goosebumps that raise up on my arms and the back of my neck, and the unsettling amusement I feel in seeing Sam totally at ease with a gun pointed to her head.

"Let the aggressive, thuggish one go. Let them all go. This is not what I hired you to do," Nevel informs them.

"Wait, hired? _WHAT_?"

--------------------------------

Hey, it's Gibby. I've just been thinkin' 'bout stuff, and I was wondering if you would rather have your belly button on your face, or every time you eat BBQ sauce, you have to lick it out of your belly button?

I'd go BBQ, personally. Then again, I'd lick BBQ sauce off of anything, including Sam's a-

Oh my God, NEVEL! Not that I'm excited to see the fruit, but…NEVEL!

* * *

**A/N: Nevel and Gibby will finally be reunited. And it'll _feels so gooood_.  
Right, so this chapter was supposed to be all serious, and angsty (not really), and then it just kinda turned into a big joke with way too many innuendos, and hormonal!Gibby took over my mind. That last statement is more unsettling for me than you, trust me. And sorry for the Carly lovers that her point of view lacked bulk there. I was having major writers block when I wrote it. Then my mojo returned when I got to Sam...go figure, right?  
**

**Not the last chapter. One or two more to go. **


	9. Day 3: Still Midday

**A/N: This whole thing is Nevel's POV, by the way. Enjoy. **

* * *

So do you think I'm the bad guy? Really? Do you? Or is the bad guy the group of 'pals' who run some webshow that's taking the interweb by storm, and I'm just following my duties as keeper of all things interwebbish to make sure that these little creeps of webshow hosts don't surpass me in internet popularity. Is that really so bad?

Oh, and if you feel mildly, or extremely confused at this point, that's a score for me. You know how this whole story has been beating the fourth wall to hell (the author needs a synonym for 'fourth wall'), almost to the point of extreme annoyance, or definitely to the point of extreme annoyance? Yes, well I obviously have more insight into this story than you yourself do, as I take part in narrating, and I'm indirectly the author, and it's my own story. So I was able to throw you off a few times, wasn't I.

Example A - I had Wozza and Francis pretend that they were headed off to a inbred joint named Bossie's BBQ (everyone there as STD's), and they also gave you the impression that they disliked me, which I didn't order them to do, but it added a nice touch in deluding you, I suppose. But they really do like me. Really.

Example B - Did I do a fabulous job acting scared and/or surprised and in denial about the killers? I did? Ah, well, muchos gracias.

Example C - I tied myself to a tree, exposing myself to _worms_ and things that live in the "wild" or "wilderness" all to throw you off. I tied myself to a tree, put up with a few ferocious beasts, and was saved by the unlikliness of Boomer and one of his circus cronies. But if it hadn't been them, Wozza was supposed to get there any minute anyhow to let me out… He was only running a few hours late. That's why my surliness in the last chapter (not the previous, but chapter seven) was authentic. I enjoy all things punctual. But he didn't leave me there on purpose. They like me. Really.

So, do you feel mislead, misinformed, deceived, hoodwinked, deluded, bamboozled? …Confused? Oh.

I just want to take this time to say that this is most definitely NOT the writer's cheap way to completely change the outcome of the story on you, because she literally couldn't get herself to write her original idea, and overnight she came up with this, and rolled with it, because she likes change, and she may or may not have mild ADD. Okay, it is not very mild at all. And the medication is presumably understood to take away from her imagination, so we all wonder what the hell might have gone down in this story if she was not on that medication, and her imagination could be wild and free. Maybe Carly Shay and I would have been smitten with one another… And that would be disgusting… Duh…

"What do you mean you paid these skunk bags?" Ah, back to the present. Hmm, skunk bags. How charming the co host is.

"I-I-I…well, you see…"

"He paid us ter eliminate his competition so he'd be the only Yank nominee at the award show," the Wozza fellow informs them.

"Yes, but I didn't mean to actually _kill_ them!" I reply quickly, avoiding the blonde's angry glare. And everyone else's angry glare, for that matter. My eyes fall upon the shirtless mass that is Gibby. He looks a bit confused. "I meant for you to merely rough them up a bit! Get them to return home! Ruin their chances at the award!" And I also may have said that they could make Carly Shay bleed and cry a little bit, but I won't mention that around so many of her close friends and family. I would formally announce our ongoing love/hate relationship as of a few recent slips of the lip, but that would get kind of repetitive, you know. Apparently, position for most entertaining love/hate relationship on this sitcom has already been filled. Bummer.

"Yeah, but we're _hired assassins_," Francis tells me. "You can't just expect us not to follow through, Pappermin."

"I was very clear in my orders! You were only to rough them up a bit, and send them packing!"

"Yeah, mate," Wozza starts, "But our slogan is 'you pay, we kill', not 'you pay, we rough em' up a bit'."

"We have a reputation to keep up here," Francis adds. "If our colleagues think we've gone soft, we'll never hear the end of it."

"'You pay, we kill'?" Spencer asks. "That's kinda…catchy. Does it have a jingle to it?"

"Yeah," Francis starts. "To the tune of this Joan Jett song, and-,"

"Can you guys, like, let Sam go now?" Benson asks tentatively, inching toward her.

"Yeah, seriously. I've never had a gun pointed at my face for this long. Well, wait…do cops count?"

Wozza's hold on the co host doesn't waver a bit, and he grips the handgun a bit tighter. "Wozza, honestly. Let her go," I tell him.

"Mmm…sorry, Pappermin, but it's not our style to leave the job unfinished."

"I won't pay you!" I warn.

"Ya'already did, mate," Wozza tells me. "In cash. The suitcase is back at the house." Oh, right, Drat.

I notice Carly Shay and her fatuous older sibling (fatuous - silly, complacent, unaware, childish, pointless, meaningless, foolish, stupid, inane. Honestly, you hooligans, it's vocabulary! Learn it) exchange a meaningful glance. And the Puckett girl seems positively giddy at the mention of the money. I catch a sideways glimpse of the goofy fellow, Spencer Shay the _artist_, using his left foot to hide a familiar looking case in a bush.

"Hey! What the-," Francis saw it as well. "Wozz, they're the ones who looted our place!"

"Noooope," the elder Shay claims.

"_That's…_just a suitcase," Carly Shay tells the oafs I shouldn't have hired in a matter-of-factly way.

"Rubbish," is what Wozza has to say. He wraps an arm around the co host again, and begins his stride toward the bush hiding this conversation starter. The co host takes this time to bite down hard on Wozza's hand, and trip him, then grab the suitcase herself.

I see my golden opportunity, and lunge for the forgotten rifle that's been leaning against a tree since I entered on this little crime scene. I have it pointed toward Wozza in a second, who has his handgun again pointed at the co host, who is clutching the suitcase to her chest, crouching down like an animal of sorts. "Drop the gun!" I order, trying to hide the trembling in my hold on the rifle.

Wozza glances over at me, and looks me up and down once, the corners of his mouth turning up in a sly grin. "You actually gonna shoot me, mate? Really?" He turns away from the co host, and the cute tech producer is quick to grab her arm and pull her down with him in between Carly Shay, Spencer Shay, and my Gibby.

"I-I will, yes," I inform him, shaking violently now. "Unless you let us all go, and we can forget this whole mess of a misread assassination."

Wozza and Francis exchange a quick smile, then Wozza has his own gun aimed at my forehead. "So, you think I'm just gonna let yer go, scott free, aye? Maybe I would've a minute ago, before we knew that your little palsies done robbed my place."

"Why are you doing this?" Carly Shay asks, shrill in desperation.

"Because it's our job!" Francis yells at her. "The boss isn't gonna be too pleased if he hears that we sluffed off on the job. We hired assassins have a code of honor, you know."

"Oh, yeah," Benson scoffs. "Very honorable, really."

"I didn't order you to kill them!" I scream, for what feels like the tenth time.

"Well, you were a bit vague in what you insinuated then, Pappermin."

"Listen, Franz-,"

"Francis."

"Right, Francis. I told you that…I told you…" Oh, drat. "I told you that you should make them bleed and cry," I finish in a small voice.

"You little _puke_." Suddenly the co host is lunging for me, luckily held back by the Benson fellow, and Carly Shay's free legs.

"Leave him alone, Sam!" Gibby turns red, and looks like he's gonna throw up. "Er, I mean, uh…"

Sam Puckett is in his face in a jiff. Her nose is pressed against his as she seethes, "What was that, nub?"

Gibby looks terrified, cowering slightly under her glare. They're still face to face, and her nostrils are flared, and she's taking waspish breaths. Gibby gulps, but all the same looks like he might be enjoying himself, and asks, "Does anyone have any BBQ sauce?" Then his face turns the color of BBQ sauce. "Er…I mean…"

"Sam, back off," Freddie Benson says. She doesn't. He sighs, and grips the back of her shirt, pulling her back into place. "Gibby's right. Nevel's trying to save us right now." _Thank _you very much. "You can beat him up after we get out of this." Wait a second…

"You plan to get out of this, aye?" Wozza asks, almost laughing. He still has his gun pointed at my face, an I at his. Thought I'm shaking and sweating a bit more than he is. Ew, sweat. This is _not_ good for my adequately sized pores, or my beautiful hair. "Alright, mate, you can shoot, but what makes you think I'm not fast enough to get a bullet out 'fore I'm gone. You shoot, you're dead too, mate."

"Shoot him, Pappermin!" the co host is quick to shout.

I gulp, feeling weak on my knees. I shift, then wipe some sweat off my brow.

"Don't shoot, Nevel," Gibby says quietly, immediately scooting away from Sam.

Wozza is smiling. So is Francis. They both know they've one. I'm out of options here. I mean, okay, maybe I don't _actually_ want the iCarly gang to die and whatnot, but I'm not about to lay down my life for them. I am far more valuable to planet earth than those ruffians.

But Gibby…Gibby… Poor, young Gibby. Too full of joy and youth to die… Oh, Gibby… Blast! …Alright, _fine_. I will take this life and death chance, but not for the iCarlies! Only for dear, dear Gibby.

Okay, I'm about to pull the trigger… Dear me, I hope Wozza was bluffing.

Hmm. Killing a human being is harder than I thought.

Okay, I'm about to pull the trigger…I think…For Gibby!

Then, before I can do the unspeakable deed, there's a loud yelp, and someone bursts onto the scene from behind me.

"Boomer!" Gibby calls joyfully.

"Hey, Gibbs, I found ya!" … "Uh, what's, uh, goin' on here?" His eyes shift from me, to my gun, to Wozza, to his gun. "Uh…Oi! Mates! Found him over here!" We are soon joined by what seems to be Boomer's entire circus. Brodi, Crazy Eyed Joe, and four others who's names were not important enough for the writer to actually note. Oh, and Jumbuck. She looks pissed. And she has a crowbar. Oh, this will be fun.

Francis brandishes his knife, eyeing the rifle in my hand with envy. Wozza straightens up, standing his ground. "Who are you'se?"

"We're Boomer's Circus. Who are you?"

"We're from The Outback Assassins Incorporated."

"Oh, you mean with the jingle to the tune of that Joan Jett song?" Boomer asks. Then he begins singing, and Crazy Eye is snapping his fingers. "You pay, we kill. We'll get the job done. La la la, we'll clean up the mess, dun dun dun-,"

"Yeah, that one," Francis confirms.

"BOOMER!" I yell. "A little help, please?"

"Oh, right." He snaps his finger once. Jumbuck immediately swings the crowbar around, catching the side of Francis' face, and knocking the gun out of Wozza's hands in the same instant. She skillfully lands a swift kick in Wozza's gut. And as Francis is finding his feet, he receives another blow to the face with the crowbar. She sticks her foot out, tripping Wozza as he stumbles backward.

The co host decides that she needs a piece of this, and she and Jumbuck continue beating the tar out of my hired assassins while Brodi gets the police on the phone, and the others help me untie Gibby and the iCarlies.

"Why did she bring a crowbar on you're search for Gibby?" I ask Boomer of his wife after we've all been watching Puckett and Jumbuck make a mockery out of male dominance for a minute or so.

"Oh, she just likes to carry it around, you know…"

"Right…"

"But the aggressive, feisty ones," Boomer continues, flicking Benson on the nose as he says it. "They're the ones you wanna get hitched with. You won't ever got to spend a pretty penny on a guard dog, I tell you what."

"Right…"

Ah, here come the police. Well then…I think I'm just going to grab my suitcase of cash, and slip out of here before I get arrested, or before the co host gets her hands on me. Cheerio!

"Hold it right there, Pappermin!" And then I'm suddenly form tackled.

* * *

**A/N: Alright...I don't really have much to say, cuz anything I want to say, I can pretty much say in my story. Breaking the fourth wall is handy. **

**Oh, the next and final chapter should hopefully be out later tonight. If not, sorry, my mom made me go to bed, haha. School night.  
**


	10. Day 3: Middayish

**A/N: Okay, final chapter. Probably my favorite. A lot of closure. Or maybe not. Oh, and you're really gonna have to keep up with the POV switches at the end...you'll see what I mean. But for the most part it's in third person! Sorry for errors, I was in a hurry to update. Any real obvious one, let me know please.**

**And I hope I didn't piss off too many Australians. The natives in this story are not at all like the real inhabitants of Australia, I'm sure. And the way they talk...yeah, I just BSed all of that, so...**

** Enjoy. **

* * *

"Hold it right there, Pappermin!" Carly shouts as Sam takes the honor of form tackling Nevel.

"Give us that pretty little case," Sam snarls into his ear.

"Get! Off! Me!" Nevel is screaming. "Gibby? Gibby! Help me!"

Gibby tentatively grabs Sam's hood, making a pathetic one handed attempt to pull her off. Spencer and Freddie help him out, and she's seething as she eyes Nevel while being restrained.

Nevel gets up, dusts off his front, and then his case. "This is my money, co host. I paid for a job to be done. The job was not done. It's my money."

"Couldn't you have just left it at getting us stranded in the Australian outback?" Freddie asks him. "I mean, we wouldn't have made the award show then."

"I had to clear my name, didn't I? If I was also stranded, then it would be less likely that I set this whole thing up."

"True…" Carly says. "But where did you get the money to buy out these skunk bags?" she asks, motioning toward Wozza and Francis, who are currently being cuffed.

"I had a lock of Michael Jackson's hair," Nevel explains. "It sold for thousands."

"How did you get a lock of Micheal Jackson's hair?" Sam asks.

"I-I…That's personal."

"Fair enough," Freddie says. "But now you're going to have to hand over the cash, or we're going to tell the police that you hired them."

"He hired us!" Francis shouts, pointing frantically at Nevel.

Carly sighs. "There goes our leverage."

One of the rangers approaches Nevel. "Alrighty, mate, we're gonna need to take you down to the station for questioning."

Nevel cringes. "Right, okay, but first can I have a word with you, Gibby?" Gibby shrugs. "Alone?" Gibby nods and follows Nevel to the only corner of the clearing that isn't filled with cops or circus people.

---------------------------

Meanwhile, Carly walks over to Spencer, who is having an animated conversation with a few of the Australian circus people. "These guys are awesome!" he tells her. "They think I'm up a gum tree!"

Carly smiles. "Spence, that means you're crazy."

"Oh. _Hey_…" The clowns shrug, and scoot off. Spencer looks back down at Carly. "So, little sister, looks like we're rescued."

"Yeah, looks that way," Carly agrees, rubbing the back of her neck, wanting to avoid a certain topic that she knows needs to be brought up. "Uh…hey, remember what you said while we were being held captive?"

"Uh…no… Should I?"

"About Sam…remember?

Spencer shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck as well. "Ah, that one. Okay. Uh…"

Carly feels uncomfortable for her brother, and she pities him, so she's quick to add, "Well, then again, you were the one who was convinced that there was a giant pink bunny following us a few different times. I guess the heat just got to you."

Spencer nods, "Yeah, maybe…sure."

"You don't sound very convincing."

"Look, I, uh, I don't have a _thing_ for Sam, but she's…well…" Spencer sighs.

"Every older brother's fantasy?" Carly suggests, looking disgusted.

"Uh…you know what, I'm feeling very OOC in my dialogue at this moment, so to avoid all things awkward, and get me back on track, I would like this conversation to shift toward the always entertaining topic of pancakes, if you don't mind."

"Of course, pancakes! How 'bout that syrup?" If Carly were on the interweb at this time, she would *facepalm*.

"Oh, maple baby!" Spencer laughs, patting his sister on the head. "But, honestly, I am a bit heat disoriented, I guess. I mean, pink bunnies? And me and Sam, well… She's cute, but it's not like I fantasize about her. Must just be my subconscious showing through."

"Was that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Uh…do you like chocolate ship, or blueberry better? I'm blueberry personally, but chocolate chip is good too. And they are superb together. Oh, remember that time that I put bananas and skittles in your pancakes? And then you threw up all over my sculpture of the fruit interpretation of the solar system…"

"Spencer!"

"Look, Carls! Me ever trying anything on your best friend is about as likely as she and _Freddie_ dating. Or as likely as that pink bunny thing being more than a mirage."

"Excuse me, mates." A ranger approaches them and asks, "There's been a robbery down at the thrift store, and the suspect took off this'a'way. So I's wonderin' if any of you'se seen a man running around in a big, pink, bunny suit?"

Then comes the simultaneous, "Oh my God," from the Shay siblings, followed by Carly's, "You are taking a cold shower right when we get home, young man."

------------------------------

Freddie watched, smirking, as the police rangers force the pilot and the tour guide, or assassins, or whatever they are into the back of one of the police vans. The circus people are being questioned, and Spencer and Carly seem to be in an animated conversation about bunnies, and showers, and pan cakes, and Freddie's pretty sure he hears his name once. Nevel and Gibby are…well, Freddie isn't so sure, but he's happy Nevel's not around. He sighs and kicks at the ground, then decides to join Sam.

"That's probably illegal," he tells her, pulling himself into the caged prisoner compartment of the black and white van.

"What is?"

"Eating a cop's sausage rolls," Freddie tells her, watching her dig through the front seat for another pack.

"Yeah, well, it's probably illegal for your face to look the way it does, but you don't hear me cryin'." She leans back into the seat, pulling her hood up over her head. "Who invited you anyways?"

Freddie yawns. "I'm tired, and it looks like it might be awhile before they're done interrogating Wozza and Francis, so I'm going to take a nap." Freddie lies down across the seat opposite Sam. "And it's air conditioning in here."

"Yeah, well, find your own air conditioned cop car," Sam says, shoving her feet into his gut.

"Mmm, stoppit," Freddie mumbles into the seat. "I'm comfortable." To his surprise, she does stop. Then he has to look up at her to make sure she's, you know, alive. "Sam?"

"Eh?"

"Uh…are you alright and everything?"

"Yeah, why, doof?"

Freddie sits up and faces her again. "Well, I mean, you did just get held at gunpoint for a while back there."

Sam rolls her eyes. "Ah, big deal. Honestly, Benson, you are such a little girl."

"Yeah, well, that type of thing would traumatize most people." He's frustrated when Sam doesn't look at him, too busy picking at an annoying hangnail on her pinky. "_Thank you for saving me_," he says pointedly.

"You're welcome."

"Gah, Sam…"

"Gah, Freddie."

"You're really, really obnoxious."

"So is your mother."

"Leave my mother out of this! Honestly I'm so sick of you always-,"

"Whoops! Don't care," she cuts him off, continuing the work on her nails.

Freddie exhales slowly. "You're impossible."

"Thank you."

"Now why can't you thank me for something I actually did?" he asks, frustrated.

Sam finally sighs, abandoning her nails, and turning to face Freddie full on. "Damn it, Benson, _thank you_. Happy?"

"No."

"Yeah, well, that's not my problem." She dismisses him with a flick of her wrist. "You can leave now."

Freddie sighs, rubbing his eyes. "I don't even know why I bothered saving you," he mumbles.

Sam perks up. "Yeah, why did you bother 'saving me' or whatever? I mean, I work pretty hard to make sure you hate me and all."

"Oh, I do," Freddie reassures. "Life and death situations, you know, people do things that they normally wouldn't."

"Right…" Sam says skeptically.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." She just smirks at him, and she's a bit angry that he's smirking back instead of the frustration she would have caused him when they first met. But she's kind of amused too. And he seems amused, and she's not sure why. And now they've been looking at each other for awhile…yeah, too long to be casual now. Yes, the point of offhand conversation has officially been surpassed. Sam briefly ponders the pros and cons of throwing herself out the window.

But she seems to have caught the rational bug, and she instead decides to turn away. "Look, Fredlumps, I-,"

Freddie doesn't know what came over him, but he's pretty frustrated that she looked away, and his mind keeps wondering back to some experiences by the fireside between the two, and all he can think to do is catch her lips with his. And then he realizes what he's doing, and it's very, very brief, and he's pulling back quickly. "Sorry! That, er, sorry." He puts his hands up in surrender. "Accident." Sam is just staring at him, her mouth hanging open a bit, eyes wide. "Seriously, I'm sorry! Don't hurt me! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, it's just that, well, I don't even know-,"

"That was the last time, Benson," Sam seethes.

"Right, agreed, totally. Well, you can have the van all to yourself now, and I don't think things could get anymore awkward, and again, I'm sorry. Uh…right, I'll just be on my way now. So sorry, last time-,"

Sam doesn't know what came over her, but suddenly she's practically pouncing Freddie. She grabs the sides of his face, and forces his lips to her mouth. He stumbles back in the small space that is the van, tripping, causing a violent tremor in the vehicle.

-------------------------------

"Did the van over there just shake?" Spencer asks.

Carly shrugs. "Probably just Sam beating the hell out of Freddie."

--------------------------------

All conscious thought has left Freddie at this point. All he knows is haste, eagerness, the pain he feels in his rear that's pushed up against something kind of sharp, heat, Sam tends to bite but he strangely doesn't mind it, and a complete feeling of dizziness that's taken over his head. If Sam didn't have such a tight grip around his shoulders, he'd probably fall right out of the van.

Sam hates herself. Well…maybe Fredqueer could simply take this as her real thank you? Yeah, that works for her. Hmm. Typically it would be her nature to make sure the dorkwad's hands are as far from her backside as possible. Then again, there is nothing typical about this situation. She guesses she'll let it slide this time. Now, back to business-

Freddie is the first to hear the approaching voices outside. He abruptly pulls his face away from Sam's, who grunts in mild protest, and he shoves her to the far side of the back compartment in the ranger's van.

Sure enough, the backdoor swings open, revealing and angry officer. "Where's my sausage?" He joins them, and searches around the back of his van for some time, before finally giving up and looking around at the kiddies in his van. He looks at the blondie just in time to catch her mouthing what looks like 'last time' at the brown haired little mate.

And then the officer notices the kid's brown hair sticking straight up, and the girlie's isn't doin' much better, and her hoody is more than off center, and the boy's collar is popped, and there's red marking all over his face.

"Uh… You kids alright?"

"Yep."

"Fantastic, sir."

"Right…" The officer remembers why he doesn't like teenagers. "Do you'se know where my sausage links got to?"

"No idea," the blondie says quickly. "Er…wait! A wild animal came in through the window, and tried to eat us, but settled for the sausage links." The brown haired kid nods, confirming this. "That's why we look, uh, like this… Oh! And it was wearing cherry lip gloss, so that's why the dork looks the way he does…"

"Cherry?" the boy asks. "You mean strawberry?" He yelps as the girl gives him a swift flick to the nose.

"Right… Well, if that's all then… Uh, be ready to head out in 'bout ten minutes or so." The officer is happy to leave his van.

Freddie waits until the door is closed, then hastily grabs Sam by the waste and pulls her in. She turns her face so his kiss lands on her cheek, and pushes him away. "What?" he asks. "We've got ten minutes."

"I was serious, Fredward. Last time!"

Freddie lets her go, but he laughs. "Yeah, okay, whatever you say."

"What? It will be!

"Uh huh."

"I can self control myself!"

"Yeah, sure. Says the one who initiated that just now."

"Screw you, Benson!"

Freddie smiles, laying back in his seat, and closes his eyes. "You would like that, wouldn't you."

Sam huffs loudly, socking Freddie in the shoulder. When he doesn't flinch, she glares, and forcefully throws open the door. Freddie puts his hands behind his head, cracking one eye open to watch Sam as she stumbles angrily out of the van. "Goodbye, I love you, pumpkin cakes!" he calls. "Wake me up when it's_ last time _round four!'" And then he drifts into a well deserved sleep with a satisfied smirk stamped on his face. He won that one.

But he will later wake up with pudding down his pants, so… You be the judge.

-------------------------------

"So, uh, what'd'ya wanna talk about?" Gibby asks Nevel they stop and lean against a dead tree, a ways away from the clearing.

"Er… Well, you see, Gibby, I…I…"

Gibby clicks his tongue, waiting patiently for his gay friend to spit it out, whatever it is.

"Uh… You, uh, you were really brave, Gibby."

Gibby itches his head. "But, uh, you and Freddie were the ones pointing guns at dudes. I just say there, all tied up, and everything."

Nevel lets out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, but you told the iCarly co host to back off me, and that means a lot, Gibby. Really. It does. She once pummeled me in an MMA arena with two other pretty girls. It sounds like a good time, but really it wasn't. Mainly just a lot of blood…"

"Ah."

"So, what I'm getting at, is I know what was at stake with you calling her out, Gibby, and I owe you."

"Oh, well, no problem, Nevs." Gibby offers a small smile, then looks down at the ground, unsure of what to say now. "Uh… Thanks for, er, coming back and, uh, saving us, I guess." Nevel smiles too. "Even though I guess this whole thing is all your fault anyway, but still."

"Ah, speaking of which," Nevel says, sticking up his forefinger. "I, uh, I'm probably going to get arrested here real soon."

"Bummer."

"Yeah, that. And before they take me away, I'd like you to know-,"

"Oi! Gibby! There ya'are!" Boomer and Jumbuck, stoic as ever, make their way toward Nevel and Gibby through the brush. Gibby brightens up and waves. Nevel clenches his fists and curses under his breath.

"Hey, Boom! Whatup?"

" We's was just lookin' for ya to tell ya that your spot in our show is still open, if you'se interested, that is." Boomer glances down at Nevel, who's glaring at him, quietly willing him to go away. "Oh, eh, the police is a'lookin' for ya, squirt."

"I'm aware," Nevel says through clenched teeth.

Boomer shrugs, turning back to Gibby. "So, how's 'bout it? Just stay here for the remainder of the year, and then come back again next summer, and we'll contact yer school and everything-,"

"Yeah, uh, sounds good, Boomer," Gibby starts. "But Nevel was just about to tell me something, so…"

Boomer nods, making a show out of closing and sipping up his mouth.

"Uh… Could you maybe give us a moment?" Gibby asks.

"Ah! Right on'ya!" Boomer puts his arm around Jumbuck's shoulder, and they make their way back toward the clearing.

"Are you really going to join their circus?"

Gibby shrugs and itches his elbow. "Maybe. Probably. It's my _calling_!" he finishes desperately.

"But, Gibby…you're never going to be home anymore! You realize that you're going to be on the road all the time! And an entire country away! And you're rarely going to see you're family or friends…" Nevel's arms drop in defeat. "Or me."

"Nev, man, you're going to be in jail anyways, so…"

"Oh, I'll make bail, Gibby! Stop being so naïve!' Nevel feels bad when Gibby looks down at his feet. "Look, Gibb, it's just that…that… Look, there's nary a moment that goes by where you're not in the back of my mind, at least. And the only reason I came back today was because of you. And, for just a moment, the ill hope of the iCarlies winning the award at the show flashed through my head, but only because I think _you_ deserve it! Gibby, I-I…" Nevel searches for the right words, being sure to avoid three certain ones.

--------------------------------

This is Nevel, and I'd like to say in regards to the writer's last line; as a brother, of course. Naturally. Scoff. Duh. Okay, carry on, dear reader.

--------------------------------

Nevel continues, "Gibby, before they take me away, I just wanted to say that I don't want you to join the Australian circus. Not now." There are a few faint calls in the background. Order from an officer to the others as the official search for Nevel is initiated. Nevel continues on hastily, "And also, I, uh, I have grown very, er, fond of you over the past few days. And I hope we can remain friends, Gibby."

Gibby swallows hard, trying to bask in this moment for what it's worth, before he has to make a decision on the whole circus thing, and Nevel is dragged off to prison. "Nevel, I…I…" Gibby is also keen to avoid certain phrases in this situation. "Nevel, if you were in a horrible accident and they put your head in a saline solution-filled fish tank, I'd feed you, change your water, and carry you on my back everyday until they built you a kick-ass robot body."

Nevel wipes a single tear form his eye. "Thank you, Gibby. That means more to me than I ever thought it would." They share a sheepish smile, and both shift their weight uncomfortably for a moment. "So…" Nevel starts.

"Sope."

"Sope?"

"Yeah, like _so_ and _ope_ mixed together."

"Ah."

"Unrelated to _soap_."

"Ah." The voices and sounds of the near end are approaching quickly now. "Sope."

"Sope."

"Should we hug?"

"Yeah."

"Should we kiss?

"Nooo!"

Nevel shakes his head hastily. "Right, of course! Sorry, that slipped. My bad. Uh…but about that hug."

Gibby sees it first. He sees it over Nevel's shoulder. The men in khaki uniform coming to claim his…his best friend. Yes, that's right, the fruit is Gibby's best friend. He thinks so at least. "Well, it'll be a few months before you're out of all your court stuff and all that," Gibby starts hurriedly, still watching the on-comers over Nevel's shoulder. "So I want you to know that I'm not going to join the circus, and I'll be in Seattle when you get out of all your legal court chizz," he spits out as quick as his droopy jowls will let him. "So, eh, look me up?"

"Definitely," Nevel says. And as the rangers coming to claim Nevel bust through the brush onto the scene, Gibby and Nevel embrace in what would later be called the best and most epic hug of all time. Nevel may or may not have almost squeezed Gibby's rear, but that is besides the point.

"See you in a few months, then?" Gibby asks as he watches his friend being cuffed.

"Right, a few months," he manages before he's being dragged off. "And Gibby!" he calls. "Gibby, you're not a dimwit!"

Gibby smiles after him, then calls back. "And you're not a fruit!"

--------------------------------

Okay, so he definitely is. But, you know, I said it because I was in the moment. But he's a good fruit. Like a banana, or an avocado. Is that a fruit? Hmm. This is Gibby, by the way. Me and Nevel get special POV privileges! Don't tell the others.

Or maybe he's an eggplant. Is that a fruit? These are the questions that haunt me.

----------------------------------

The end.

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Wait, but who gets the cash in the suitcase?

----------------------------------

Honestly, Sam! All you care about is food and money.

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Shut up, Benson! Nobody cares what you think. And plus, that's a lot of money!

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Sorry, Freddie, but she has a point.

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Yeah, Fredhead. Listen to the sensible Carly. Now where is that suitcase…

----------------------------------

Excuse me, _co host_, but that money belongs to me. I sold a lock of Michael Jackson's for it, after all.

-----------------------------------

Yeah, but you're going to jail, so…

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SILENCE, Carly Shay. I thought that only Gibby and I were getting the special POV privileges in this predominantly third person chapter!

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I know, right? Indecision… Oh, and don't worry, Nevs, man, I'll come visit you in jail.

----------------------------------

Thank you, Gibby.

----------------------------------

You two are such homos.

----------------------------------

Hey, that's rude, Puckett. Even if it is Nevel. And it's not politically correct.

----------------------------------

You're not politically correct, dorkwad!

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Ooh, _good one_. You a bit flustered, Puckett? Can't come up with comebacks 'cause _maybe _you got _something _on your mind… Hmm?

----------------------------------

Hello. Sam's last post would not have fit the T rating (we had to bump it up from K+ after the last chapter or two). Even with some things starred out, her statement could not be shown, so I am here to fill it's space.

Hello. My name is Spencer Shay. I am a sculptor, and I enjoy all things shish kabobbed, and long moonlit walks on the beach. I am here to inform you that the suitcase of Nevel's money was stolen by that pink bunny suited man. I tried to catch him, but I, uh, was distracted.

The caterpillar was sparkly! Oh, come _on…_ If you saw a sparkly caterpillar, you'd stop too. I then proceeded to find out that it is highly poisonous. Oh, and I am being rushed to the hospital as we speak.

And as we are reaching civilization once again, we find out that iCarly was disqualified from the award show, because they were a no-show for their performance. However, Nevel won the _women's choice award_, and a shiny trophy of a computer with a face which I plan to sculpt out of peanut butter and bendy straws shortly. But, you know, Nevel is being carted off to court, so who really won? Not him.

Okay, I will now proceed in serenading you in your exit. "So long, farewell, to you my friends. Goodbye, for now, until we meet again. La la la…" And repeat.

Anyone ever seen Out of the Box? I record every episode. The writer was _this _close to making this story a crossover with that show.

Okay, tootles!

----------------------------------

The end. And happy birthday to whomever it may concern.

* * *

**A/N: Whew, that's over. It was fun while it lasted, but a pain in the butt to update since school and everything. Well...I'm sorry if you feel completely unfulfilled, and like you wasted your time, haha. I knew this one was gonna be a big joke from the very beginning, I should'a warned you guys. ...Ah wells. Hey thanks to all my beautiful, lovely, magical reviewers. You guys are always a lot of fun. **

**Okay, I may be taking a break from writing for awhile. But I'm getting laid off from my job in a few weeks, so that'll clear up some time! **

**Oh, wait...could it be...another chapter? *gasp* Don't get your hopes up... (See title of next chapter)  
**


	11. Waste of Space

Hello. Spencer again. I just wanted to say, seriously, Ronald McDonald would beat the Stay Puft man in a fight. I don't care what you nonbelievers say, it's the truth.

And I found out from Wozza and Francis, now respectively behind bars, how the entire jingle for the Outback Assassins Incorporated goes.

Heh hem.

"You pay, we kill, la la la.

We'll get the job done,

We'll even clean up the mess, dun dun dun,

And we'll use our own gun,

It's not our fault, la la la

If you go to jail,

Don't blame us, dun dun dun,

For your cover up FAIL,

We don't do refunds, la la la

We only accept cash

Now we'll do our job, dun dun dun,

You sit back and relax,

Yeeaaah." End song.

Oh, and Gibby wanted me to say stop judging him. He'd lick BBQ sauce off of anything....Hmm. Whatever that means. Alrighty then, later.


End file.
